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ST.   JOHN'S    FIRE 

A  DRAMA  IN  FOUR  ACTS 

BY 

HERMANN  SUDERMANN 


Translated  from  the  German  by  \ 

GRACE  E.  POLK  \ 


The  H.   IV.   WILSON  COMPANY 

MINNEAPOLIS 

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Copyright   1905 
By  Grace  E.  Polk 


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ST.    JOHN'S    FIRE 


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CHARACTERS. 

VoGELREUTER^  a  well-to-do  farmer. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter^  his  zvife. 

Trude,  their  daughter. 

Georg  von  Hartwig,  a  contractor,  Vogelreuter's  nephew. 

Marikke,     called    Heimchen      {"Little-stay-at-home") , 
adopted  daughter  in  Vogelreuter's  household. 

The  Weszkalnene. 

Haffke,  assistant  pastor. 

Plotz,  overseer  on  Vogelreuter's  farm. 

Mamsell. 

A  servant  maid. 

The  action  is  laid  toward  the  end  of  the  '8o's,  on  Vo- 
gelreuter's estate  in  Prussian  Lithuania. 


ACT  I. 

[A  conservatory  in  the  farm  house.  The  hack  wall  is 
seen  through  three  broad  glass  doors  which  are  sep- 
arated from  each  other  by  small  columns.  Behind 
this  is  a  terrace  covered  by  an  awning,  from  which 
steps  lead  down  into  the  garden.  At  the  right  and 
left,  doors.  In  the  center  of  the  room,  a  long  dining 
table  spread  for  breakfast.  At  the  left  in  the  fore- 
ground, a  sofa,  sofa  table  and  chairs.  At  the  right, 
a  sewing  machine  and  beside  it  a  basket  containing 
pieces  of  a  trousseau.  There  are  old  fashioned  cop- 
per etchings  and  family  portraits  on  the  walls.  The 
filrnishings  are  simple  but  comfortable.  It  is  shortly 
after  daybreak.] 

(Trude  is  busied  about  the  breakfast  table.    Vogelreu- 
TER  comes  in  with  Plotz  from  the  right.) 
VoGELREUTER.     Hm !  The  devil's  getting  in  his  work. 

early  today.     (Throws  off  his  cap.)   Morning,  Trude! 
Trude.     (Happily.)     Morning,  Papa,  dear! 
VoGELREUTER,    A  pretty  mess,  this !    You  ought  to  be 

ashamed  of  yourself,  Plotz!    When  it  happened  before 

out  on  the  meadow — ^but  now  right  in  the  stall!     The 

devil ! 
Trude.     What's  the  matter,  Papa  ? 
VoGELREUTER.     Cow's  Overeaten  herself.     It's  easy  to 

see  that  Heimchen  isn't  here.    Nothing  of  this  sort  hap- 

[7] 


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ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

pens  when  she  tends  to  the  milking  in  the  morning.  Well, 
what  excuse  have  you  got  to  offer  for  yourself,  Man? 

Plotz.     Nothing,  Mr.  Vogelreiter. 

VoGELREUTER.  Well,  there's  some  sense  in  that  at  any 
rate.  Here,  have  a  cigar.  And  see  that  you  get  out  and 
send  for  the  veterinarian.  (After  a  pause.)  Do  you 
want  some  coffee? 

Plotz.  I've  had  my  breakfast  already,  Mr.  Vogel- 
reiter. 

VoGELREUTER.  Then  what  may  you  have  followed 
me  in  here  for? 

Plotz.  I — I  wanted  to  excuse  myself,  Mr.  Vogelrei- 
ter. 

VoGELREUTER.  Oh,  you've  got  a  brilliant  eloquence  in 
that  line — you  fool. — Morning ! 

Plotz.  (Hesitatingly.)  Good  morning.  (He  re- 
mains standing  there.) 

VoGELREUTER.     Well,  what  next? 

Plotz.  W-Why,  I  had  another  little  message  for  you, 
Mr.  Vogelreiter. 

VoGELREUTER.     Out  with  it,  then. 

Plotz.     (With  a  glance  at  Trude.)     But — 

VoGELREUTER.  Say,  Trude,  go  out  and  see  what  the 
weather's  like. 

Trude.  All  right,  Papa,  dear.  (She  goes  out  onto  the 
terrace. ) 

VoGELREUTER.      Well  ? 

Plotz.  (In  a  low  tone. )  The  old  Weszkalnene's  been 
seen  ag^in. 

VoGELREUTER.  (With  a  Start.)  Heh? — Well,  that  is 
a  pretty  business — ta-ta-ta! — Who  saw  her? 

[8] 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Plotz.  She,  was  down  at  the  village  begging ;  and  then 
she's  been  about  here  besides, — she  was  mousing  'round 
back  of  the  sheds,  some  half  dozen  times. 

VoGELREUTER.  "*  So ?  {He  scTOtches  his  head.)  Well, 
well,  well.  If  I  can  once  get  the  sly  old  toad  jailed,  she'll 
be  cleared  out  of  our  way  for  a  few  years. — Well,  so  she's 
back  again ! — What  does  she  want  this  time  ? 

Plotz.  She  said  she  heard  her  daughter  was  going  to 
get  married — 

VoGELREUTER.  (Interrupting.) —  Hers!  Oh  ho!  So 
she — (He  breaks  off  with  a  laugh.)    And  then? 

Plotz.  And  so  she's  come  to  fetch  herself  a  bit  of  the 
wedding  cake,  so  she  said. — But  she  hasn't  trusted  herself 
in  the  yard  yet. 

VoGELREUTER.  She  Can  thank  her  stars  for  that !  All 
you've  got  to  do,  Plotz,  is  to  watch  out  that  she  doesn't 
get  near  to  anyone  in  the  house.  Anyone.  Do  you  un- 
derstand? I'll  just  speak  to  the  police.  Perhaps  we'll 
run  across  her  again.    Well,  good  morning. 

Plotz.     Morning,  Mr.  Vogelreiter. 

(Plotz  goes  out.    Trude  comes  in  from  the  terrace.) 

Trude.     Can  I  pour  you  out  some  coffee.  Papa  dear  ? 

VoGELREUTER.  Oh  ho,  SO  you're  looking  after  the 
breakfast  this  morning,  Frousie!    Can  you  do  that? 

Trude.     Why,  Papa,  as  if  I  couldn't  always  do  that. 

VoGELREUTER.  Well,  Well.  Heimchen  usually  tends 
to  it  anyway. 

Trude.  (Continuing.)  Yes,  just  as  well  as  Heimchen. 
— But  you  must  be  patient. 

VoGELREUTER.  You  sweet  little  rog^ie,  you'  How 
many  more  days  do  I  have  you  now? 

[9] 


vS?SK?SW?^P5f5SJ|^'«Sf^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Trude.     Four  more,  Papa. 

VoGELREUTER.  You  rascal !  Must  you  get  married 
now?     Must  you — heh? 

Trude.     But  Papa  dear,  you  set  the  day  yourself. 

VoGELREUTER.  Oh  yes.  But  what  is  a  poor  old  fellow 
like  me  to  do? — Hasn't  the  lover  come  down  yet? 

(Trude  shakes  her  head.) 

VoGELREUTER..  Such  a  piece !    To  sleep,  sleep,  sleep! 

Trude.  He  worked  late  last  night,  Papa.  At  two 
when  it  was  beginning  to  get  light,  the  lamp  was  still 
burning  in  his  room. 

VoGELREUTER.  Industrious,  is  he?  If  he  only  wasn't 
such  a  stubborn  piece. — Mama  hasn't  come  down  yet 
either? 

Trude.     No. 

VoGELREUTER.     Has  Heimchen  come  home? 

Trude.     Yes,  on  the  early  train. 

VoGELREUTER.  And  how  about  the  little  hushie-kushie 
nest  for  the  two  lovers ;  isn't  that  pretty  near  done — heh  ? 

Trude.  She  has  to  go  to  Konigsberg  once  more,  I 
believe.    And  then  it  will  be  ready. 

VoGELREUTER.  And  is  it  going  to  be  cozy  and  nice — 
heh? 

Trude.  I  don't  know,  Papa.  They  don't  breathe  a 
word  to  me  about  it.  It's  all  to  be  a  surprise.  But  then 
I'm  sure  it  will  be  wonderfully,  wonderfully  nice. 

VoGELREUTER.     And  you're  happy,  Frousie,  heh? 

Trude.  Oh  Papa,  dear,  I'm  sure  I  don't  deserve  to 
be  so  happy. 

VoGELREUTER.  When  you  bring  your  poor  old  father 
hard  boiled  eggs  to  eat,  you  don't  deserve  it,  for  a  fact. 

[10] 


"tv  I  ;■■■  .  is(i" 


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ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Trude.  (Alarmed.)  Oh  excuse  me.  I'll  go  right 
out — 

VoGELREUTER.  Ncvcr  mind.  Never  mind.  Heimchen's 
getting  enough  sleep,  I  s'pose, — heh? 

Trude.  If  she  only  could.  Oh  Papa,  tell  her  she  has 
to.  Nobody  can  stand  the  way  Heimchen's  working  now. 
One  day,  she's  here  at  the  housework,  and  the  next,  she's 
arranging  things  in  Konigsberg,  and  nights,  she  sits  sev- 
eral hours  on  the  train.     If  she  only  doesn't  get  sick. 

VoGELREUTER.     Well,  never  mind,  I'll — 

(Mrs.  Vogelreuter  comes  in  from  the  left.) 

Mrs.  VoGELREUTER.    Good  morning. 

VoGELREUTER.     Morniug,  wife.    Well? 

Trude.  (Running  to  her  and  throwing  her  arms  about 
her  neck.)     Good  morning.  Mama  dear. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  (Pressing  her  to  her  heart.) 
My  sweetheart!  Oh  dear,  oh  dear!  Only  four  times 
more  we'll  say  "good  morning"  to  each  other  and  then 
it's  all  over  with. 

Trude.     But  you'll  soon  come  to  visit  us.  Mama  ilear. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Ah,  what  is  visiting.'  (She 
weeps. ) 

Vogelreuter.  Come,  come,  children,  don't  get  stirred 
up  too  much.    Feeling's  poison  on  an  empty  stomach. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Who  curled  your  hair  last  night, 
darling? 

Trude.     Mamsell. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  You  can  see  at  a  glance  that 
Heimchen  didn't  do  it.  Speaking  of  Heimchen,  what  do 
you  think!  A  little  while  ago,  I  opened  her  door  softly 
to  see  if  she  was  asleep;  there  she  sat,  still  dressed  just 

[II] 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

as  she  came  from  the  train,  and  she  had  a  book  on  her 
lap,  and  was  looking  up  toward  heaven  with  her  eyes 
wide  open. 

VoGELREUTER.  Well,  what  does  that  mean?  Read- 
ing hasn't  been  a  passion  with  her  for  a  long  time  now. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  I  keep  thinking  all  the  time  we 
ought  to  look  after  her  better. 

Vogelreuter.  She  doesn't  need  anyone  to  look  after 
her ;  she's  got  backbone  enough  of  her  own ;  but  what  we 
have  got  to  do  is  to  spare  her. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  But  Henry.  Spare  her  now? 
Four  days  before  the  wedding!  How  can  anyone  be 
spared  now? 

Vogelreuter.    Well,  you  know — Hm! 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Henry,  I  love  the  girl :  you  know 
that  well  enough.  But,  dear  me,  she's  not  like  our  own 
little  sweetheart. 

Trude.  She's  a  good  deal  better  than  I  am,  Mama 
dear. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Now  just  see  the  modesty  of 
that.    Who'd  have  believed  it  ? 

Trude.  Just  imagine  once.  Mama,  that  she  was  get- 
ting married,  and  /  was  staying  at  home. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Then  our  sunshine  would  stay 
and  our  comfort  and  our — (Examining  the  breakfast 
table.)  Dear  me,  to  tell  what  we've  got  here  is  more 
than  I  can  do. 

Trude.     Why,  Mama? 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Dear,  it's  all  so — so — so — If 
Heimchen  isn't  asleep,  she  might  just  as  well  come 
down. 

[12] 


O^fejC^f 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Trude.  (Petting  her  mother  and  laughing.)  See!  Ma- 
ma, you  can't  live  a  single  meal  without  her. 

(Georg  VON  Hartwig  com«  in.) 

VoGELREUTER.  Well,  you  sluggard,  are  you  down  at 
last? 

Georg.  {Extending  his  hand.)  Come,  come,  you 
must  be  easy  on  me,  Uncle.  Don't  be  in  a  hurry  to  dis- 
grace me. 

Vogelreuter.  You  can  call  me  Father  too,  pretty 
quick  now,  boy. 

Georg.  Yes,  right  after  the  marriage. — Morning,. 
Aunt !  {He  kisses  her  hand.)  Well,  my  little  one?  {He 
kisses  Trude.) 

Trude.  {Clinging  to  him.)  My  treasure!  {She 
bursts  out  laughing.)  Just  look  at  him:  he's  got  his- 
whole  back  covered  with  hayseed. 

Georg.     Well  then,  brush  it  off  nice,  little  one. 

Vogelreuter.  I  suppose  you'd  rather  sleep  out  on 
the  haystack,  these  days? 

Georg.  Heavens,  sleep!  Who  can  sleep?  I've  been 
walking  about,  since  God  knows  when,  up  and  down  in 
the  meadows.  Such  St.  John's  days — it's  enough  to  drive 
a  man  mad.  It  seems  as  if  there's  no  night  at  all  now. 
Late  last  night,  I  sat  by  the  window,  thinking  to  my- 
self, "Confound  that  nightingale;  you  can't  go  to  sleep- 
till  he  stops  his  racket."  And  all  at  once  the  thrush  burst 
forth.  And  there  it  was  morning.  At  the  left  there 
lay  the  red  of  evening,  here  at  the  right,  the  red  of 
morning — ^both  at  the  same  time.  "From  flame  and 
flame,  a  new  day !" — Ah,  I  tell  you,  it's  beautiful. — Give 
me  some  coffee. 

[13] 


';^«'Tj^tF-x^^^«'K?^^^^-s^^?"  ■ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

VoGELREUTER.  Say,  do  you  expect  to  stay  here  now 
until  the  wedding. 

Georg.     Why,  naturally. 

VoGELREUTER.  Why  naturally?  Why  is  that  taken 
for  granted  ? 

Trude.     (Begging.)     Oh,  Papa,  dear! 

Georg.  It's  all  the  same  to  me.  Shut  me  outside  the 
door  if  you  like,  and  I'll  go  down  and  lodge  with  Prechtel 
at  "The  Sign  of  the  Cup." 

VoGELREUTER.  Oh  yes,  and  bring  back  fleas  with  you 
in  the  morning. 

Mrs.  VoGELREUTER.     Why,  Henry,  shame! 

VoGELREUTER.     But  it's  true. 

Georg.  Granted.  The  wedding  was  set  for  the  twen- 
tieth. So  I  went  to  the  Council  and  got  a  leave  of  absence 
for  the  nineteenth.  It's  my  first  leave  of  absence  in  the 
new  place.  For  I  can't  be  running  about  here  and  there 
and  everywhere.  But  my  wedding,  bless  you,  it  didn't 
come  off. 

Mrs.  VoGELREUTER.  But  George,  dear,  her  things 
weren't  ready,  you  know. 

Georg.  And  then  besides,  where  could  I  have  gone 
when  I  left  here.  I  haven't  a  sign  of  a  house  yet.  But 
then  Heimchen's  tending  to  that  for  me.  By  the  way,  has 
Heimchen  come  home? 

(Trude  nods.)  '< 

Mrs.  VoGELREUTER.  You  make  such  a  wry  face  all  of 
a  sudden ;  what's  the  matter  ?  Have  you  been  quarreling 
with  Heimchen? 

Georg.  What  an  ideal  Of  course  not.  But  I  can't 
stand  the  idea  of  the  girl's  working  herself  to  death  for 

[14] 


■">*,., 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

me  the  way  she  is.  Really  I'd  rather  have  stayed  in  Kon- 
igsberg.  , 

Trude.  You!  She  isn't  doing  that  for  your  pretty 
eyes ;  she's  doing  that  for  my  pretty  eyes. 

Georg.     Don't  be  so  vain,  you  Uttle  monkey. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  {Petting  her.)  But  George,  dear, 
she  does  have  pretty  eyes. 

Georg.     As  it  is  proper  that  my  bride  should  have. 

Vogelreuter.  And  don't  you  be  so  conceited.  Do 
you  understand? 

Georg.  I'm  not  conceited.  Uncle;  I'm  merely  for 
facts. 

Vogelreuter.  Well,  since  you're  so  much  for  facts, 
then,  what's  come  over  you,  boy,  to  lay  such  a  piece  of 
trash  on  my  writing  desk? 

Georg.  Uncle,  don't  begin  the  dispute  again  so  early 
in  the  morning.    Wait  till  later  at  least. 

Vogelreuter.  All  right.  But  what  may  that  trash 
be? 

Georg.  That  is  the  balance  of  my  account.  I  am  a 
free  man,  and  I'm  celebrating  it.  I  can  support  my  wife 
out  of  my  own  earnings.  So,  you  see,  that's  what  it 
means. 

Vogelreuter.  But  what  if  I  should  tell  you,  you  big- 
head, — 

(Marikke  enters  from  the  right.) 

Marikke.  Excuse  me,  Papa,^(ro  the  others.)  Good 
morning. 

Trude.  {Throwing  her  arms  about  her.)  Heimchen, 
my  Heimchen! 

Marikke.  {Kissing  her.)  Darling!  {Then  she  goes 
to  Vogelreuter  and  kisses  his  hand.) 

[15] 


T^jrw?!i^!;g^ffl^^'Wpggs^?n¥St»r'^'f»sf :?r?i=^:^'J?f^  ■^*'"^^'^™'*f'S^fPS!3'?r!^S*^^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

VoGELREUTER.  Well,  SO  you're  safe  back  home — Oh 
ho!  Hold  up  your  head.  What's  gotten  into  you?  Hold 
up  your  head,  I  say.  Did  something  happen  to  you,  last 
night? 

Marikke.     {Doubtfully.)     N-no. 

VoGELREUTER.       {To    MrS.    VoGELREUTER) .      Just   look 

at  her  once.    She's  as  yellow  as  saffron,  as — 

Mrs.  VoGELREUTER.     What's  the  matter,  child? 

Marikke.  Nothing,  Mama.  I  just  haven't  had  any 
sleep ;  that's  all.    I've  been  sitting  in  the  car. 

VoGELREUTER.  And  are  you  done  at  last  with  this  con- 
founded drudgery? 

Marikke.  I  have  to  go  once  more — but,  excuse  me, 
Papa,  the  new  assistant  pastor  is  out  there  by  the  fence 
and — 

VoGELREUTER.      Who  ? 

Marikke.     The  assistant  pastor. 

VoGELREUTER.  (roTRUDE."!  W'lat  are  you  giggling 
about  ? 

Trude.  {Pulling  at  Marikke's  dress  with  barely  sup- 
pressed giggles.)     I-I'm  not — giggling — at  all. 

VoGELREUTER.     And  what  does  he  want? 

Marikke.  He  says  he  won't  intrude  on  you  so  early. 
You'll  have  to  go — 

VoGELREUTER.     Nonsense.     Come  in  he  shall. 

Marikke.     Yes,  of  course.  Papa. 

Georg.     Good  morning,  Heimchen. 

Marikke.     Good  morning,  George.     {She  goes  out.) 

VoGELREUTER.  {To  Trude.)  If  you  keep  up  this  sort 
of  foolishness,  it  won't  be  long  till  you'll  find  yourself 
thrown  into  a  corner  without  any  wedding.    Watch  out. 

[i6] 


jPPpqp|iigppP|ppiP!|ii|liRP«p!i«_4,W 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Trude.  Oh,  dear,  good  Papa.  I'm  so  ashamed  of  my- 
self— and  I'll  never  do  it  again.  But  it's  so  funny — he's 
gone  heels  over  head  in  love  with  Heimchen — 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Now  that  you're  a  bride,  my 
love,  you  mustn't  say  "heels  over  head  in  love"  any  more.  ^ 

That's  the  way  hoydenish  young  girls  talk.     You  must 
say — 

Georg.     Made  a  fool  of  himself. 

(Trude  bursts  out  laughing  again.) 

Mrs.    Vogelreuter.  {Threateningly,    to    Georg.) 

Shame  on  you ! 

Vogelreuter.     Sh ! 

{Assistant  pastor  Haffke  enters.  Marikke,  during 
the  following  conversation,  is  noiselessly  removing  the 
breakfast  dishes.) 

Haffke.  I  wouldn't  have  thought  of  disturbing  you 
so  early  in  the  morning,  ladies  and  gentlemen, — 

Vogelreuter.     Eight  o'clock  is  not  early  in  the  coun-  . 

try.  Your  Reverence ;  you'll  soon  find  that  out.        .  | 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     How  is  Alterchen  today  ?  • 

Haffke.       {Shrugging  his  shoulders.)     So-so. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     He's  no  worse,  I  hope? 

Haffke.  I  always  say,  a  man  must  have  a  care  to- 
getting  old,  but  when  he's  once  eighty,  it's  a  pretty  hard 
thing  to  get  round. 

Vogelreuter.  You  are  a  philosopher.  Won't  you: 
take  something  to  drink? 

Haffke.     Thanks.     With  pleasure. 

Vogelreuter.  Good!  That  was  spoken  like  a  man. 
{Pours  out  for  him.) 

[17] 


-Wf5^ri'?''5^'*«5^'f''?S^'»^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE     j 

Haffke.  Thanks.  Your  health.  {They  touch  glass- 
es with  the  little  fingers  extended.) 

VoGELREUTER.     Won't  you  have  some  too,  George  ? 

Georg.     Thank  you.     Later  on. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  How  long  have  you  been  here 
now,  Your  Reverence? 

Haffke.     Three  weeks. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     And  do  you  like  it?  . 

Haffke.  Why,  I  like  it  everywhere,  you  know.  It's 
very  beautiful  everywhere.  But  here  it  seems  still  a  little 
more  beautiful.  There's  s.^mething  else  here,  you  know. 
Here  there's  not  merely  glitter,  here  there  is  (with  a 
look  toward  Marikke  )  light. — Here  there  is  not  mere- 
ly laughter,  here  are — smiles.  (Jumping  up  behind  Ma- 
ikke.)  Ah,  my  dear  young  lady,  you  have  dropped  a 
napkin.     (He  picks  it  up  and  reaches  it  to  her.) 

Marikke.  (Smiling.)  I  thank  you,  Your  Rever- 
ence. (She  goes  out.) 

(Trude  is  seised  zvith  a  new  At  of  laughter  and  goes 
out  behind  her.) 

Vogelreuter.  Your  Reverence  will  pardon  her.  She 
is  still  so  childish. 

Haffke.  Don't  let  that  worry  you.  She  was  quite 
right.  I  can't  quite  do  away  with  my  so-called  gallantry 
yet.  And  how  is  a  man  to  be  gallant  in  such  a  long  coat  ? 
It's  impossible. 

Georg.  Tell  us,  Your  Reverence,  how  did  it  happen 
that  you  came  here? 

Haffke.  Well,  you  see,  that  has  to  do  with  this  coat 
too.  To  be  brief,  we  were  at  the  meeting  o|  our  Color- 
club,  four  of  our  old  crowd,  who  were  waiting  there  to  be 

[i8] 


!t% 


■M|P^P!qg|gPBii>imHilPRP!ipi!fpnsp>ifiRppp?3?i?s!?^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

freed  from  the  sins  of  mankind;  and  I  was  the  only  one 
of  the  lot  who  found  himself  in  so-called  good  circum- 
stances.   And  with  now  the  one  and  now  the  other  hav- 
ing to  appear  before  the  Consistorium  or  something  of 
that  sort,  my  good  coat  soon  got  pretty  threadbare  with 
its  many  lendings.    And  besides,  it  hadn't  an  idea  of  fit- 
ting the  others.     So  I  said,  "I'll  tell  you  what,  boys," 
says  I,  "we'll  all  go  to  the  tailor  now,  and  he  shall  cut 
us  a  coat  on  the  diagonal  that  can  hold  its  own  between 
the  lot  of  us."    That's  what  we  did.    About  four  weeks 
ago  now,  along  came  one  of  our  old  fraternity  brothers, 
who  is  second  pastor  at  the  Cathedral;  he  came  to  the 
Club-house  and  said  to  us  candidates:  "You  holy  men," 
says  he,  "come  along  now,  all  of  you,  and  bring  your 
dice  box  along  with  you.     Over  yonder  there  in  Lithu- 
ania, there's  an  old  man,  who  can't  preach  any  longer; 
I've  got  to  appoint  a  substitute  for  him.    So  out  now  with 
your  dice !"    But  the  others  all  declared  in  one  voice : — 
"Haffke  must  have  the  place,  for  he  has  shared  his  black 
coat  with  us."    And  so  now  I  have  to  be  running  about 
in  it  and  am  not,  unfortunately,  half  so  pious  as  I  appear. 
VoGELREUTER.     Courage,   courage!     It  will   soon  be 
over. 

Haffke.  Ah,  but  you  mustn't  think  I'm  not  glad  to 
wear  it :  that  I'm  not  glad  to  be  a  minister.  For  do  you 
see  why?  I'm  so  sorry  for  the  most  of  mankind,  you 
know.  The  heart  in  my  body  just  aches  for  them.  But 
I  am  sure  it  was  even  so  with  our  Lord  Jesus,  and  so  I 
am  glad  to  follow  in  his  footsteps.  Besides,  my  father 
wished  it  so,  too.  My  father  is  a  well-to-do  farmer.  There 
aren't  such  large  estates  in  the  lowlands,  to  be  sure.    But 

[19] 


/ 


'■■"IWlMliPJISWfil 


^^^  ^  ""mrviift^^Hg'^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

he  has  (impressively  and  at  the  same  tim,e  compassion- 
ately) much  money.  It's  from  my  father  I  get  my 
common  way  of  speaking,  too.  I  wouldn't  be  so  well 
fitted  for  a  court  minister  either,  but  I'm  good  enough 
for  my  farmers.  But  my  gallantry,  bless  you,  I  can't 
quite  do  away  with  it! 

VoGELREUTER.  You  are  a  good  man.  Do  you  want 
to  stay  here  ?    Are  you  willing  to  take  Alterchen's  place  ? 

Haffke.     I  should  like  to  very  much. 

VoGELREUTER.     You'll  get  my  vote. 

Haffke.  Now  let  me  see.  Then  I'd  already  have  an 
office.  (Looking  around.)  Now  all  that  I  lack  is — well, 
what  I  came  here  for  is  this :  Our  Alterchen,  you  know, 
is  no  longer  able  to  perform  the  ceremony  for  you. 

Mrs.  VoGELREUTER.     Is  that  so ! 

VoGELREUTER.  (At  the  Same  time.)  That  had  oc- 
curred to  me. 

Haffke.  Now  comes  the  question :  Have  you  got  to 
send  for  some  one  else,  or  are  you  willing  to  intrust  the 
matter  to  this  young  terrier? 

VoGELREUTER.  Your  Reverencc,  if  we  hadn't  heard 
you  preach,  then  I  would  say,  "No.  You  are  too  much 
of  a  stranger  to  us."  But  you  spoke  then  with  such  ear- 
nestness and  such  warmth,  that  I  believe — how  is  it, 
Christine  ? 

Mrs.  VoGELREUTER.     (Nods.)    . 

VoGELREUTER.    And  you,  George? 

Georg.  I  don't  know,  perhaps  I  am  mistaken.  Your 
Reverence,  but  I  believe  there  is  a  bond  of  sympathy  be- 
tween us. 

Haffke.  With  me,  unfortunately,  that  isn't  saying 
much.     With  me  everyone  is  uncommon  sympathetic. 

[20] 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Georg.     At  all  events,  I'm  glad — 

Haffke.  Well,  then  just  run  out  for  a  few  minutes.  I 
must  now  make  all  haste  to  find  out  a  little  bad  about  you. 

Georg.  (Extending  his  hand  to  him,  with  a  laugh.) 
Be  easy  on  me. 

(Georg  goes  out.) 

Haffke.  May  I  note  down  a  few  points  for  my 
speech  ? 

Vogelreuter.     Certainly. 

H-A.FFKE.  This  gentleman,  then,  your  nephew,  he 
stands  in  an  unusually  dose  relationship  to  your  family 
does  he  not? 

Vogelreuter.     You're   right. 

Haffke.     How  did  that  happen? 

Vogelreuter.  Oh,  as  such  things  do  happen.  Here 
in  East  Prussia,  in  '6y,  we  had  that  terrible  famine  year. 
Do  you  recollect? 

Haffke.  Very  slightly.  I  was  nothing  but  a  boy 
then. 

Vogelreuter.  It  was  terrible.  Potatoes  rotted  in  the 
ground ;  fodder  was  pulp ;  not  a  stalk  of  rye.  We  coun- 
try folk,  I  tell  you — whoo-oo!  Well,  my  brother-in-law, 
ni}-  dead  sister's  husband — had  his  estate  over  there  in 
Ragnitz — saw  one  day  that  he  couldn't  keep  up  his  taxes 
any  longer,  and  being  the  kind  of  a  fellow  he  was,  with 
his  hifalutin  notions  of  honor,  he  put  a  bullet  through 
his  head. 

Haffke.  Oh  awful,  awful,  awful !  Was  your  sister 
living  at  that  time? 

Vogelreuter.  Thank  God,  no.  Well,  and  ever  since 
then — 

[21] 


mm^ms^sw 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Haffke.  Pardon  me  for  interrupting  with  a  question 
that  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter.  I  have  heard  that 
the  people  down  in  the  village  call  your  adopted  daughter, 
Marikke,  "the  famine  child."  Perhaps  that  has  .some- 
thing to  do  with  that  sarhe  famine  year  ?  _      i 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Why,  haven't  you  heard  about 
that,  Your  Reverence?  You  just  ought  to  guess  how  we 
came  by  the  child.  Well,  in  that  same  terrible  winter — 
(To  Vogelreuter.)  Don't;  I  was  telling  him  first.— We 
were  coming  one  evening  from  Heidelberg,  my  husband 
and  I,  where  we  had  been  organizing  a  soup  kitchen.  On 
the  edge  of  the  woods,  there  where  it  turns  off  the  main 
road,  you  know,  all  of  a  sudden  the  horses  shied.  We 
looked  down,  and  there,  straight  across  the  road  lay  a 
Lithuanian  woman  with  a  child  on  her  breast,  and  she 
declared  she'd  let  herself  be  run  over  and  killed.  So  we 
loaded  the  woman  into  the  sledge.  What  a  sight  she 
was! 

Vogelreuter.  I  tell  you,  Your  Reverence,  a  good 
three-month  after  that  we  still  kept  finding  something 
alive  in  that  fur  robe. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  And  the  little  brat  at  first — oh 
dear !  oh  dear !  But  when  we'd  washed  it  and  fed  it,  and 
laid  it  down  nice  in  the  white  pillows,  and  when  it  smiled 
up  at  us  with  its  little  wizened  face,  my  husband  said: 
"Heaven  has  sent  her  to  us,  after  all :  perhaps  she's  to  be 
our  share  of  the  general  misery." 

Vogelreuter.  As  for  Trude,  she  wasn't  born  yet, 
you  know. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  She  came  three  years  later. 
Well,  to  go  on,  then  we  bought  the  child  outright  from 

[22] 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

the  drunken  old  woman  and  were  glad  enough  when  she 
was  gone,  for  it  smelled  so  much  like  Hoffman  drops 
around  her,  it  was  more  than  we  could  stand. 

VoGELREUTER.  That's  what  the  drunkards  drink  here 
instead  of  whiskey,  you  know. 

Haffke.     Dreadful !  dreadful ! 

VoGELREUTER.     But  to  come  back  to  my  nephew — 

Haffke.  Pardon  just  one  more  question.  How  did 
it  go  later  with  the  mother? 

VoGELREUTER.  Well,  that's  the  bad  part  of  the  story. 
And  just  to-day — 

Mrs.  VoGELREUTER.     What  happened  today? 

VoGELREUTER.  Heaveus,  nothing,  nothing.  Why,  the 
old  woman  came  back  right  away,  and  since  we  didn't 
want  to  show  her  the  child,  we  gave  her  some  money. 
Naturally  the  beast  took  good  note  of  that  and  directly 
became  a  plague  to  the  neighborhood. 

Mrs.  VoGELREUTER.  But,  Henry,  perhaps  her  mother- 
ly feeling  — 

VoGELREUTER.  Very  likely.  And  the  pilfering,  no 
doubt  she  did  that  from  motherly  feeling,  too?  At  any 
rate,  every  time  she  honored  us  with  a  visit,  there  was 
something  missing,  until  at  last  I  put  the  police  before 
the  door.    Well,  then  she  was  done  for. 

Haffke.  And  how  about  your  adopted  daughter? 
Does  she  have  any  presentiment  ?     Does  she  know  ? 

VoGELREUTER.  We  told  her  her  mother  was  dead,  but 
once  she  came  across  her  face  to  face. 

Haffke.     When  did  that  misfortune  happen? 

VoGELREUTER.  On  the  day  she  was  confirmed.  Just 
as  the  girls  were  coming  out  of  the  church,  we  heard 

[23] 


IWIW  IPMSHSiWipViS  *.  :.'"^  Wp»»;'5!;-i*P-'J^'*«'H'WVV'^>WMf  ium.WiWW^9^!lrTW^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

screams.  What  was  up?  She'd  been  hiding  by  the 
path ;  and  there  she  was,  down  on  her  knees,  hugging-  her 
and  kissing  her  hands  and  feet. 

Haffke.     (Shuddering.)     Terrible! 

VoGELREUTER.  Naturally,  I  wasn't  long  in  getting 
the  child  away  and  into  the  house.  But  we  had  to  ex- 
plain it  to  her  some  way.  A  drunken  old  woman,  we 
said.  Did  she  believe  it  or  not?  Well,  she  was  pretty 
sick  afterwards. 

Haffke.     And  now,  Mr.  \ogelreuter,  how  is  it  now? 

VoGELREUTER.  You  ask  with  a  good  deal  of  interest. 
Your  Reverence. 

(Georg  appears  at  the  middle  door,  Trude  behind  him, 
and  later  Marikke  comes  in.) 

Georg.  Well,  are  you  about  done  with  my  warrant  of 
arrest  ? 

VoGELREUTER.  Oh  to  be  sure,  we  haven't  even  begun  it 
yet.  Some  one  else  interested  His  Reverence  a  good  deal 
more. 

Haffke.  (Earnestly. )  You  must  not  believe  that,  Mr. 
von  Hartwig.  But  there  are  destinies  which  bear  so  dark 
an  impress — (He  casts  a  glance  toward  Marikke  who 
has  just  come  in  from  the  left  with  a  bundle  of  sewing.) 

Geokg.     (Following  his  glance.)    You  are  right. 

Haffke.  If  my  friends  will  permit,  I  will  call  again 
to  see  about  the  speech. 

Mrs.  VoGELREUTER.  (Extending  her  hand  to  him.) 
You  know  we  are  always  glad  to  see  you. 

VoGELREUTER.  And  our  regards  to  Alterchen.  Along 
toward  evening  we  will  be  over  to  see  him  as  usual. 

Haffke.     Oh,  by  the  way,  I  had  entirely  forgotten  it : 

[24] 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Alterchen  wanted  me  to  ask  you  please,  if  you  were  going 
to  bring  him  any  more  eggwine,  to  make  it  just  a  little 
sweeter.     The  last  time  it  was  too  sour. 

A'Irs.  Vogelreuter.     Oh,  poor  Alterchen! 

Hafpke.  Don't  say  that,  Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  When  all 
our  hopes  and  wishes  have  once  more  focused  themselves 
on  a  bit  of  sugar,  we're  well  over  the  mountain.  Well, 
good  day.  (To  Marikke).  Good  day,  my  dear  young 
lady. 

Marikke.     (Absent-mindedly.)     Good  day. 

(Haffke  goes  out,  preceded  by  Vogelreuter.) 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  (To  Trude.)  Come,  my  love, 
don't  feel  so  bad  about  it ;  no  one  will  think  any  the  worse 
of  you. 

Trude.  Oh,  but  I'm  so  ashamed.  When  he  came  he 
was  so  happy,  and  now  he  looked  all  put  out.  He  was 
certainly  hurt. 

Georg.     Not  hurt.    Only  a  little  serious. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  On  the  whole,  how  do  you  like 
him,  Heimchen? 

Marikke.  ( Who  has  been  gathering  up  the  pieces  of 
sewing).    Who,  Mama? 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     The  assistant  pastor. 

Marikke.  Mercy,  Mama,  I've  had  my  head  so  full  of 
things  these  last  few  days,  I  haven't  even  had  a  chance 
lo  think  about  it. 

Trude.     (To  Georg,  aside.)     Now,  you  tell  her  once. 

Marikke.  Trude,  how's  the  tulip-tree  getting  along? 
Have  any  flowers  come  out  over  night  yet? 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  What !  Haven't  you  been  out  to 
see  your  favorite  tulip-tree  yet? 

[25] 


^  .'psp^lftsp^fw',^--  •  ■•'SfB^wpwf^PiPwgpipppiipiF 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Marikke.     I  haven't  had  time,  Mama. 

Trude.     Now,  tell  her.    Tell  her. 

Georg.  Heimchen,  you  must  not  work  yourself  to 
death  for  us.  Trude  doesn't  want  you  to,  either.  It's  op- 
pression for  us  to  permit  it.  (Marikke  looks  off  into 
vacancy  and  sings  in  a  lozv  voice.) 

Trude.  She  didn't  hear  a  single  word ;  she's  singing 
something. 

]Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     What  are  you  singing  there? 

Marikke.     Why,  I  wasn't  singing. 

1\Irs.  Vogelreuter.     Yes,  you  were,  just  now. 

Marikke.  Was  I?  I  heard  a  song  at  the  station  in 
Insterburg  last  night — a  Lithuanian  song.  A  few  Mar- 
jellans  in  the  fourth  class  were  singing  it.  It  went  so — 
yes,  like  this : 

(She  sings.) — 

Zwirio  czenay,  zwirio  tenay, 
Kam'  mano  bernyczo. 
Rid  wid  wil  dai  dai — 
Ner  mano  bernyczo — 

Georg.  And  the  Lithuanian,  can  you  remember  it  so 
from  jiist  hearing  it? 

Marikke.     Of  course. 

Georg.     Wherever  did  you  learn  it  ? 

Marikke.  Why,  that's  nothing.  Why,  I've  always 
known  that. 

Georg.  Well,  and  what  do  the  verses  mean  in  Ger- 
man? 

Marikke.  In  German?  Oh,  they  don't  mean  any- 
thing m.uch. 

(She  sings.)     Here — no — 

[26] 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

(Begins  again.) — 

Hither  I  looked,  thither  I  looked ; 
Oh  where  may  be  my  lover  ? 
Rid  wid  wil  dai  dai, 
Nowhere — is — my  lover. 

(VoGELREUTER  Zi'ho  Jtos  Stepped  in  during  the  last 
zvords  goes  softly  to  Marikke  and  throzvs  his  arms  around 
her  from  behind.    Marikke  screams.) 

VoGELREUTER.  Comc,  comc,  patience  my  little  IMarjel- 
lan.  Someone  will  come  for  you  too — perhaps  he  is  on 
the  way  now — well,  what  now?    Don't  carry  on  so. 

Marikke.  (Who  is  clinging  to  him  with  tearless 
sobs.)    You — frightened — me — so. 

VoGELREUTER.  And  when  did  you  get  so  nervous? — 
What's  the  matter  with  you  today  anyway? — Did  some- 
thing happen  to  you  ? 

Marikke.     I  told  you  already,  no. 

VoGELREUTER.  But  Something  did  happen  to  you. — I 
say  it  plainly  to  your  face.  And  now  I  insist,  if  you 
please,  that  you  tell  me  the  truth.^ 

Marikke.     Well  then,  something  did  happen. 

VoGELREUTER.     What?    Out  with  it. 

Marikke.     There  was  some  one  attacked  me. 

VoGELREUTER.     Attack — where  ? 

Marikke.     It  was  not  far  from  the  yard. 

VoGELREUTER.     As  }'Ou  were  coming  from  the  station  ? 

Marikke.     Yes. 

VoGELREUTER.  Well,  that  beats  all.  Why,  everybody 
knows  you.  Everyone  knows  that  you're  no  gad-about. — 
What  did  he  look  like?  Was  he  a  laboring  man  or  a 
gentleman  ? 

[27] 


.54, 


^''!5IP»»SW^3W''^»5"''^P»T'^|BPP!P'ra!'5»«?^J^^^P*^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Marikke.     a — gentleman. 

VoGELREUTER.     What  did  he  say  to  you  ? 

Marikke.     He  did  not  say  a  word. 

VoGELREUTER.     Well,  did  he  take  hold  of  you,  or  try 
to  take  hold  of  you  ? 

Marikke.     No. 

\'oGELREUTER.     I  thought  he  attacked  }"ou. 

Marikke.     Attacked,  yes. 

VoGELREUTER.     Well  then,  did  he  follow  you? 

Marikke.     Yes. 

VoGELREUTER.     How  far? 

Marikke.  As  far  as  the  gate.  Then  I  opened  it  quick 
and  he  turned  around  there  and  went  back. 

A'oGELREUTER.     ( To  Georg. )  What  do  you  say  to  that  ? 

(  Georg  shrugs  his  shoulders. ) 

VoGELREUTER.  There  certainly  is  something  very 
strange  about  the  affair. — And  that's  what's  upset  you  so  ? 

Marikke.     I'm — all  right  again  now. 

VoGELREUTER.  {Lifting  tip  her  chin.)  You  don't 
look  it. 

Trude.     Don't  tease  her,  Papa  dear. 

VoGELREUTER.     Now  go  get  a  good  sleep  for  once. 

Marikke.  I  can't  yet,  Papa.  I  have  to  talk  with 
George,  first — about  the  corner  room.  I  don't  know  how 
I'm  to  set  up  the  big  bookcase. 

VoGELREUTER.     But  you  can  see  to  that  afterwards. 

Marikke.  No,  or  else  I'd  forget  how  the  other  things 
are  arranged. 

VoGELREUTER.  Well,  that's  all  I've  got  to  say!  (To 
Mrs.  Vogelreuter.)  I'm  going  out  now  to  see  about  the 
cow ;  are  you  coming  along  ? 

[28] 


7*5S^r'9'ja^T7'^-~'^j'  ^  '^'■v--3^^^»«''^i^^^ry^  f 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  (Getting  up  and  folding  her  sew- 
ing.)    Of  course,  I'm  coming  along. 

Vogelreuter.  {To  Marikke.)  And  one  tiling  more, 
do  you  understand  ?  For  the  next  few  days  you're  not  to 
go  outside  the  yard,  unless  someone's  along.  Not  a  step 
beyond  the  gate,  is  it  understood  ? 

Trude.     But  why  not.  Papa? 

Vogelreuter.  When  such  a  thing  can  happen?  Be- 
sides, there's  more  than  you — why,  such  a  thing  hasn't 
occurred  in  a  life  time. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  But,  Henry,  in  broad  daylight, 
it  seems  to  me  it's  somewhat  different. 

Vogelreuter.  All  the  same — I  have  my  reasons — be- 
sides, I'll  tell  you  something  else — 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  {Patting  Marikke  on  the  cheek 
as  she  passes  her. )   And  now  go  have  a  nice  rest,  my  love, 

( Vogelreuter  and  Mrs.  Vogelreuter  go  out. ) 

Marikke.     But  you  must  go  out  now  too,  Trude,  dear. 

Trude.     Why  me? 

Marikke.     Why,  you  know,  darling, — the  furnishing. 

Trude.  Oh,  that  stupid  furnishing.  A  wedding  isn't 
Christmas. 

Georg.  We'll  be  lucky,  little  one,  if  it  turns  out  to  be 
Christmas  for  us. 

Trude.  Well,  if  you  want  me  to ;  but  don't  be  too 
long.      {She  goes  out.) 

Georg.     What  makes  you  so  absorbed? 

Marikke.     O  I — e was  just  trying  to  think  how 

the  corner  room  looked. 

Georg.  Heimchen,  how  good  you  are!  How  can  we 
ever  repay  you  ? 

[29] 


^"mf^mm^wmnrfwirww^mii^Bp' 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

MArikke.  There's  no  need  of  that.  I  get  my  pay  out 
of  it  as  I  go  'long.  When  I'm  having  the  furniture  set 
up,  I  am  always  sort  of  imagining  to  myself  how  it  will 
be  when  you  live  there.  There  they  will  sit  and  drink  tea, 
and  there  they  will  keep  their  twilight  hours,  I  think — 
and  that  makes  it  very  lovely.  Yesterday  I  kept  your 
twilight  hour  for  you.  But  now,  what  I  wanted  to  speak 
to  you  about,  George:  In  the  moving  yesterday  a  piece 
of  ill  luck  happened — rthe  glass  from  the  best  room  got 
cracked. 

Georg.  Well,  if  only  our  friendship  doesn't  get 
cracked. 

M.A.RIKKE.     But  it  surely  won't ! 

Georg.     It  shan't  be  placed  to  my  account,  Alarikke. 

M.ARiKKE.  And  surely  not  to  mine. — And  then  I  had 
the  big  mahogany  book  case  polished  up.  Was  that  what 
you  wanted? 

Georg.     That  suits  me  exactly. 

Marikke.  (Hesitatingly.)  And  then — there's — one 
thing  more — I  must  say  to  you,  George.  Something  im- 
portant. When  I  was  taking  the  things  out  of  the  book- 
case, I  found  a  blue  notebook  behind  the  books. 

Georg.  {Without  showing  interest.)  What  sort  of  a 
notebook  ? 

Marikke.  George,  you  must  not  leave  that  lying 
around  as  soon  as  Trude  is  in  the  house.  Not  even  behind 
the  books,  George. 

Georg.     For  heaven's  sake,  what  sort  of  a  notebook? 

Marikke.  I  guess — there  were — all  sorts  of  poems  in 
il — 

Georg.     Yoii  guess  there  were — poems  in  it?     That 

[30] 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

notebook  has  been  missing  since  last  winter.  I  thought 
I  had  lost  it  on  the  way  some  time.  Heimchen,  be  frank, 
of  course  you  have  read  the  notebook  through? 

Marikke.     No. 

Georg.  Then  why  do  you  say,  I  mustn't  leave  it  lying 
around  ? 

Marikke.  The  first  one,  I  did  read,  and  the  second; 
I  began.    And  then  I  thought.  No  this  is  better  left  alone. 

Georg.  And  you  didn't  browse  around  in  it  farther — 
not  in  the  middle  or  anywhere? 

Marikke.     No. 

Georg.     Can  you  swear  to  that,  Heimchen  ? 

Marikke.     Yes,  I  can. 

Georg.     Then  swear. 

Marikke.     I  swear.    iYotc  are  you  satisfied  ? 

Georg.  Thank  God !  But  you  mustn't  think,  Heim- 
chen, that  there're  things  there  that  I'm  ashamed  of.  My 
bit  of  scribbling  has  been  far  too  sacred  to  me  for  that. 
But — four  years  ago,  something  came  into  my  soul— that 
no  one  guesses  and  no  one  knows.  And  no  one  must 
know  of  it  either.    . 

Marikke.     No  one? — Not  I,  either? 

Georg.  You  ? — No,  not  you,  either.  Where  have  you 
got  the  book  ? — Give  it  back  to  me. 

MarikKe.  I  buttoned  it  under  my  waist.  (She  turns 
tozvard  the  back  of  the  stage  and  draws  the  notebook  from 
tinder  her  dress.)  Here  it  is. 

Georg.  How  shall  I  thank  you,  Heimchen?  How 
can  I  ever  thank  you? 

Marikke.  Ah — you  can  do  me  a  favor.  Promise  me 
that  you  will  do  it. 

[31] 


,ti^->  ■^t'!m^gi4-m»mmi'Wi*'wwmi,vimk!ii^^f^'f^m'«e^i9»*mm'  wx ' 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Georg.     If  I  can,  certainly. 

Marikke.  George,  I  must  explain  something  to,  you, 
first.  I  lied  to  Papa  a  little  while  ago  when  he  questioned 
me.  It  was  no  man  that  stopped  me  last  night;  it  was  a 
Lithuanian  woman^ — George,  it  was  surely  my  mother. 

Georg.  (Confused.)  But  Heimchen,  I  thought  your 
"mother  was  dead. 

Marikke.  Oh  God,  it  is  not  true.  None  of  you  tell 
me  the  truth.  That  was  my  mother  on  the  day  I  was  con- 
firmed ;  and  again  today  it  was  the  same  woman.  I  would 
stake  my  life  on  it  if  it  came  to  that. 

Georg.     Tell  me  how  it  happened. 

Marikke.  I  was  walking  along  as  still — it  was  already 
pretty  light — and  something  crawled  out  of  the  ditch  along 
by  the  road.  I  looked  ;  there  was  an  old  beggar  woman  and 
she  called  out:  "Marikke,  Missie,  my  little  daughter." — 
Then  I  turned  all  cold  with  horror  and  I  began  to  run, 
and  back  of  me  I  still  kept  hearing  all  the  time,  "Marikke, 
my  little  daughter."  And  now  I  have  run  away  from  my 
— own  mother. 

Georg.     Hm ! 

jMarikke.  And  you  know,  dear  George,  that  cannot 
be.  I  could  never  answer  that  charge.  And  now  I  beg 
of  you,  I  beg  of  you ;  I  must  see  her  again ;  I  must  know 
what  I  am — and  there  Papa  has  forbidden  me  to  go 
out  of  the  yard — and  besides,  I'm — afraid,  or  else  perhaps 
I'd  do  it  anyway.  And  so  I  beg  you,  dear  George,  you 
look  for  her,  please,  yon  look  for  her.  She  must  surely 
be  somewhere  round  yet — in  the  village  or  at  the  station 
or  along  the  road. 

Georg.     Well,  and  then? 

[32] 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Marikke.  Then  bring  her  here — into  the  garden — or 
better  still,  right  here — toward  evening  when  Papa  and 
Mama  are  gone  over  to  Alterchen's. 

Georg.     Heimchen,  I  cannot  do  that. 

Marikke.  I  ask  you  once  to  do  something  for  me,  and 
then  you  say  you  cannot. 

Georg.  See  here,  Heimchen.  I  know  you're  good  to 
me — you  weren't  always  so,  and  perhaps  it  is  to  be  regret- 
ted ;  but  if  you  had  done  a  good  deal  more  for  me  than 
you  have,  I  cannot  do  it — without  their  knowing  it,  I 
cannot  do  it.    For  I  do  not  know  what  would  come  of  it, 

Marikke.  George,  even  a  famine  child  like  I  am 
must  know  for  once  what  it  is  to  have  a  mother,  though 
she  is  nothing  more  than  a  Lithuanian  beggar  woman.  I 
must  lay  my  head  on  her  shoulder  for  once.  I  must  cry 
once  and  be  petted  by  her — 

Georg.  Aren't  you  petted  ?  Isn't  Mama  always  good 
to  you? 

Marikke.  Yes,  but  that  is  different ;  that  is  very,  vec» 
different.    I  have  never  in  my  life  felt  as  I  do  just  now. 

Georg.     Why  just  now? 

Marikke.  Because  my  heart  is  so — (appealinglyy 
George ! 

Georg.  I  don't  know  what  would  come  of  it.  I  cait 
not. 

Marikke.    And  so  you  are  like  that? 

Georg.     Yes,  I  am  like  that.  .*«;&-? 

Marikke.     George! 

Georg.    Hm  ? 

Marikke.  George,  don't  you  have  a  thought  any 
more  for  what  you  spoke  of  a  little  while  ago,  for  what 
was  in  your  soul  four  years  ago  ? 

[33] 


R3?*^'RW^!WSa^J'^r«'^'^'*?r'K5igij|P|jp5!!«^^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Georg.  {After  a  silence.)  Heimchen,  then  you  have 
read  the  notebook  through? 

Marikke.  Yes,  I  have  read  the  notebook  through. — 
Now  will  you  do  it? 

Georg.     Heimchen,  why  have  you  perjured  yourself? 

Marikke.  {Shrugging  her  shoulders.)  Oh  God! — 
Are  you  never  going  to  do  it? 

Georg.    Very  well,  I  will  do  it. 

CURTAIN. 


[34] 


'■Wf^~ 


ACT  II. 
[The  same  scenery.]  ■ 

Mamsell.  {Appearing  at  the  door  at  the  right.)  Can 
I  come  in,  Miss  Heimchen  ? 

Marikke.  {Who  is  sitting  at  the  sewing  table  with 
some  sewing  in  her  lap  and  is  looking  dreamily  oif  into 
the  garden.)     Oh,  it's  you,  Mamsell?    Come  in.    Yes. 

Mamsell.  Oh,  you're  at  work  on  Trude's  underwear  ? 
Mercy  me,  mercy  me,  that  is  a  dowry  for  you!  Fit  for 
a  royal  princess!  Listen,  Heimchen.  Mama  has  g^ven 
me  the  list  for  the  wedding  dinner.  Now,  as  to  the  fish. 
I'm  always  for  home-made  things  too,  but  carp's  too  com- 
mon, you  know. 

Marikke.     Why  so?    Why,  I  think  carp  is  very  nice. 

Mamsell.  It's  too  common  when  little  Trude  gets 
married ;  when  you  get  married,  we'll  have  carp. 

Marikke.  {Smiling.)  It'd  be  a  pity  to  use  even  carp 
for  me,  Mamsell. 

Mamsell.  No — no.  We'll  do  what's  right  by  you. 
I'll  fix  it  up  nice  for  you  with  a  fine  Polish  sauce.  You 
just  wait  and  see.  But  our  Trude  must  have  sea-fish. 
You're  to  write  to  Konigsberg  for  it,  you  know. 

Marikke.     All  right:    I'll  ask  Mama  about  it. 

Mamsell.     You're  not  mad  at  me,  are  you  ? 

Marikke.     Oh  no. 

[35] 


^'^'^^'^'^^s'''«S!?fiW^'''''v"'r°^?5'r"''"^^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Mamsell.  For  really,  you're  only  a  poor  little  Lithu- 
anian waif. 

Marikke.     I  know  it,  Mamsell. 

Mamsell.  But  we  love  you  just  the  same.  And  the 
apple  dumplings,  we'll  both  help  make  those,  won't  we? 

Marikke.     Haven't  you  seen  Mr.  George? 

Mamsell.  No — no.  Listen,  Heimchen !  And  I'll  tell 
you  something  nice.  That  young  candidate  or  minister  or 
whatever  he  is,  he's  in  love  with  you. 

Marikke.     Is  he? 

Mamsell.     He's  going  to  propose  to  you. 

Marikke.     Indeed ! 

Mamsell.  You'll  make  your  fortune  yet,  Heimchen. 
You'll  be  a  St.  John's  bride  yet.    You  just  wait  and  see. — 

Marikke.     What's  that? 

Mamsell.  What's  a  St.  John's  bride  ?  That  I  can  tell 
you.  In  the  new  seal  of  Solomon,  it  stands  written :  Who- 
ever gives  or  receives  the  betrothal  kiss  on  St.  John's 
night,  he  shall  be  fast  sealed  in  that  love  until  death.  So 
it  stands  in  the  new  seal  of  Solomon. 

Marikke.     Does  it? 

( Trude  comes  in  at  the  middle  door  with  her  hands  be- 
hind her  back.) 

Trude.     Heimchen,  I've  got  something  for  you. 

Marikke.     What  is  it  ? 

Trude.  Mamsell  must  go  out  first.  Out.  Out  with 
you,  Mamsell. 

Mamsell.  I'm  gone,  my  love,  I'm  gone.  (She  goes 
out.) 

Trude.     Shut  your  eyes. 

(Marikke  does  it.) 

[36] 


■^v-s--^  < 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Trude.  (Holding  in  front  of  her  face  a  bush  of  or- 
ange-colored flowers  similar  to  the  tulip  and  with  leaves 
something  like  those  of  the  maple.)      What's  that? 

Marikke.  The  tulip-tree ! — The  first  flowers  from  the 
tulip-tree.  (Burying  her  face  in  the  bush.)  And  so  it's 
in  bloom. 

Trude.     Well,  are  you  happy  now? 

Marikke.     I  thank  you,  darling !  I  thank  you,  darling ! 

Trude.  And  who  do  you  suppose  fetched  them  down  ? 
George. 

Marikke.     For  me  ? 

Trude.  Well,  of  course,  for  whom  else?  I  tell  you, 
it  made  me  dizzy  to  see  him  hanging  up  there  so  high  in 
the  air. 

Marikke.     Think.    He  did  that  for  me. 

Trude.  Why,  you  conceited  thing!  Why,  he  does  a 
good  deal  more  for  me. 

Marikke.     Oh  yes,  for  you. — And  where  is  he  nozv? 

Trude.     I  don't  know  where  he  is  now. 

Marikke.     Did  he  say  he  had  to  go  out? 

Trude.  Yes,  he  said  he  was  going  out  into  the  fields. 
That  was  quite  a  while  ago  now.  I  wanted  to  go  with 
him,  and  begged  and  begged,  but  he  wouldn't  hear  to 
it. 

Marikke.     Wouldn't  he?     (She  breathes  hard.) 

Trude.  He's  away  all  the  time  today.  Papa's  asked 
for  him  several  times  already.  And  then  he  seems  so — 
do  you  know,  sometimes  he's  not  nice  to  me. 

Marikke.     Child,  dear,  that  cannot  be  true. 

Trude.  Then  he  has  such  a — if  I  didn't  know  that 
he  loved  me!    And  then  there's  another  thing.    I  don't 

[37] 


^P!Knsippp8^?m;?'>;*'';!^!^s^!l|H^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

know  whether  I  ought  to  tell  you  or  not.  Yes,  I  will  tell 
you.  One's  always  so  afraid,  at  least  I  am,  that  some 
one  will  take  him  away  from  me. 

Marikke.  (Laughing.)  George — from  you?  Who 
might  that  be  ? 

Trude.  I  don't  know  who.  But  sometimes,  when  he 
looks  at  me  so — a  little  as  though  he  loved  me — and  a  lit- 
tle— sort  of  as  if  he  pitied  me  a  little — he  shall  not  pity 
me.     Why  should  he,  when  I'm  so  happy? 

Marikke.     Well,  if  you're  happy. 

Trude.  But  then,  I  can't  keep  from  thinking,  perhaps 
he  really  loves  someone  else,  and  only  acts  that  way  to  me, 
because  he's  sorry  for  me — Oh,  if  I  could  know  that! 

Marikke.     But,  darling — 

Trude.  Don't!  I'm  not  a  child,  any  longer.  How  sil- 
ly I  acted  this  morning.  I  was  awfully  sorry  for  it  after- 
wards.    But  it's  such  fun  to  laugh. 

Marikke.     And  you  shall  laugh — always — always. 

Trude.  And  then — you  know — Mama  thinks  I  don't 
love  him  right.    I  still  love  him  like  a  child,  she  thinks. 

Marikke.  (Absent-mindedly,  with  surprise.)  He'd 
be  a  pretty  young  father. 

Trude.  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that.  But  as  children  usu- 
ally do  love  people.  Mama  thinks.  And  Mama  thinks, 
just  on  general  principles,  I'm  too  young  to  get  married. 
Really,  Mama  feels  bad  because  I'm  going  away.  But 
you'll  be  good  to  her,  won't  you,  Heimchen  ?  You'll  be 
all  she  has  pretty  soon  now. 

Marikke.     I — all  Mama  has? 

Trude.     Yes,  of  course. 

Marikke.     Whose  all  /  am,  I'll  soon  find  out. 

Trude.     What  do  you  mean  by  that? 

[38] 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Marikke.     Here  he  comes. 

(Georg  enters  through  the  middle  door.) 

Trude.  {Running  to  him.)  My  treasure!  My  treas- 
ure! 

(Marikke  also  takes  a  few  quick  steps  toward  him 
and  then  stops.) 

Trude.     {Shaking  him.)     Ach!     You  son-of-a-gun ! 

Georg.     What!  what! 

Trude.     Nothing.    I  only  said  son-of-a-gun. 

Georg.  {Tenderly).  Listen,  Mousie,  little  one.  Such 
things  sound  very  well  for  Papa  to  say;  but  they  won't 
do  for  you. 

Trude.  {Pouting. )  You  don't  like  anything  I  do. 
Everything  Heimchen  does  pleases  you.  You  can  go 
marry  Heimchen. 

Georg.     Heimchen does  not  want  me. 

Marikke.     I  thank  you  very  much,  George. 

Georg.    What  for? 

Marikke.     {Lifting  up  the  bush.)    For  this,  George — 

Georg.  Oh,  you're  welcome,  you're  welcome,  if  that's 
all. 

Marikke.     Have  you  been  out  in  the  fields? 

Georg.     Yes,  I've  been  out  in  the  fields  too. 

Trude.  Papa's  all  out  of  patience  with  you ;  he's  been 
looking  everywhere  for  you.    He  wants  to  talk  with  you. 

Georg.     Hm!  Does  he? — I  know  well  enough — well! 

Marikke.     What  direction  did  yon  go? 

Georg.     Oh — everywhere. 

Marikke.     Did  you  find  anything? 

Trude.    What  should  he  find  ? 

Georg.     Of  course — ^yes — what  should  I  find?    Your 

[39] 


'  .:-iJJlfAi':^i<^>^:^  i>. 


|Hjpi«Uiyi«liaWRp;l!i^^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

tulip-tree's  a  funny  old  fellow,  girls, — he  stands  there 
like  Saul  among  the  prophets — all  out  of  place. 

Trude.  Great-grandpapa  brought  it  from  South 
America  with  him. 

Georg.  Is  that  why  you  care  so  much  about  it,  Heim- 
chen, — ^because  it's  such  a  stranger  ? 

Marikke.     {Busied  at  her  setving.)     That  may  be  it — 

Trude.     That's  not  it  at  all. 

Marikke.     Why,  then  ? 

Trude.  Now  I'll  tell  you  the  real  reason.  One  time 
when  she  was  in  Konigsberg  with  Papa,  he  took  her  to 
the  opera.    The  opera  was  called  "The  Afrikanerin." 

Marikke.     {Anxiously.)     Oh  please,  be  still. 

Trude.  There's  a  poison  tree  that  comes  into  that 
opera,  isn't  there? 

Georg.     Yes. 

Trude.     It's  called  the  manzanillo-tree,  isn't  it? 

Georg.     Quite  right. 

Trude.  And  whoever  touches  the  blossoms  will  die. 
And  what  do  you  suppose  she  was  always  making  be- 
lieve after  that?  And  I  along  with  her.  We  went  out 
under  the  tulip-tree,  touched  the  flowers  that  had  fallen 
down,  stretched  ourselves  out  at  full  length — 

Georg.     And  then  you  were  dead  ? 

Trude.     Yes,  then  we  were  dead. 

Marikke.  As  you  might  imagine,  George,  that  was 
a  long  time  ago. 

Trude.  Dear,  not  so  very  long — four  years,  perhaps, 
since  we  died  in  agony. 

Marikke.  {Casts  a  frightened  glance  at  George,  who 
returns  it  thoughtfully. ) 

[40] 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Trude.     But  now  we're  alive  again. 

Georg.  Well,  thank  God.  Listen,  little  one,  run  out 
now  and  find  Papa.  Tell  him  I'm  here  now.  Please, 
please ! 

Trude.  If  I've  got  to — Heimchen,  are  you  going  with 
me? 

Marikke.     I'd  rather  stay  here. 

Trude.     I'd  rather  stay  here,  too. 

Georg.     Be  brave,  little  one. 

(  Trude  goes  out,  whining  to  herself. ) 

Marikke.  (Eagerly,  in  a  low  tone.)  Did  you  find 
her? 

(Geo^g  nods.) 

Marikke.     Is  she  coming?     Say. 

Georg.  Listen,  Heimchen.  When  I  gave  you  my 
promise  this  morning,  I  did  not  know  whom  it  had  to  do 
with.  I  had  never  seen  your — no,  I'd  rather  not  call  her 
that — I  had  never  seen  the — Weszkalnene — ^that's  what 
they  call  her,  you  know,  until  today — Heimchen,  I  can't 
bring  that  upon  this  house.    It  will  not  do. 

Marikke.     (Anxiously.)     George! 

Georg.     At  least  take  Uncle  into  your  confidence. 

Marikke.     No,  no !    No  one  but  you.    Only  you ! 

Georg.  Tell  me,  just  what  do  you  want  her  for,  any- 
way? You  belong  here.  You  have  everything  you  can 
wish  for  here.    You  have  love — you  have — 

Marikke.     My  bread  also.    Yes,  I  have  that. 

Georg.     I  wasn't  talking  of  that. 

Marikke.  But  I  was.  And  I  earn  it,  too.  I  earn 
the  little  bit  of  love,  too.  I  am  the  famine  child.  I  won't 
take  something  for  nothing. 

[41] 


,  ^■'2:&^£^ . 


"ip*W«W-^wS^|iPP!fP«iWiS^^ 


!  '»iJP»P9^WPW? 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Georg.  The  devil  has  the  upper  hand  of  you  today, 
Heimchen. 

Marikke.     I  think  he's  always  lurking  in  me. 
-Georg.     Heimchen,  give  this  up.    Some  bad  will  come 
of  it.     We'll  feel  the  consequences  of  it.     Whatever  is 
against  nature  avenges  itself. 

Marikke.  That  a  child  should  cry  for  its  mother, — 
is  that  against  nature? 

Georg.     That's  not  your  mother.  Your  mother  is  here. 

Marikke.  Trude's  mother  is  here — not  mine.  A 
mother  must  have  a  feeling  how  things  are  going  with 
her  child.  She  must  have  a  presentiment  how  everything 
in  one — 

Georg.     Sh ! 

Trude.  What  secrets  are  you  always  talking  about? 
Please,  please,  let  me  hear,  too.  You'll  just  tear  the  heart 
right  out  of  me  if  you  keep  on  with  these  secrets  of  yours. 

Marikke.     But,  Trude,  dear,  it's — all — for  you. 

Georg.     (Disapprovingly.)     Hm! 

Marikke.  (Petting  Trude,  timidly  aside  to  Georg.) 
And — it's — for — you  too. 

(Vogelreuter  conies  in.) 

VoGELREUTER.  So  you're  here  at  last  are  you?  See 
here,  boy,  where  have  you  been  keeping  yourself  all  day  ? 
It  just  about  seems  as  if  you'd  been  keeping  out  of  my 
way. 

Georg.     Why,  Uncle ! 

VoGELREUTER.  Listen,  you  there,  have  you  tended  to 
Alterchen's  eggwine? 

Marikke.     Oh  dear,  no,  I  forgot  it. 

[42] 


ff'l'3!™'S!^-5'«»<T-     .^  -y>~     ■a5r«riT!««^>a««  -^         (  -f  ^  j-^p^fl- 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

VoGELREUTER.  Then  go  and  get  it  ready.  And  put 
more  sugar  into  it.    You  know  how. 

Marikke.    All  right,  Papa. 

VoGELREUTER.  You  Can  go  help  her,  little  Frousie. 
It's  time  you  were  learning  to  do  something,  too. 

Trude.     All  right,  Papa. 

Marikke.  But  I  don't  believe  you  can  take  it  with 
you,  you  and  Mama — because  it  has  to  cool  first.  And 
that  takes  forever. 

VoGELREUTER.    Well,  then,  you  can  bring  it  afterwards. 

Marikke.  (  With  a  glance  at  Georg. )  Can't  Trude 
do  that  ?    I've  got  so  much  to  do. 

Trude.     No,  not  me. 

VoGELREUTER.  Yes,  you.  You're  just  the  one.  And 
see  that  you  don't  run  away  again  like  you  did  last  time. 
Do  you  understand  ? 

Trude.  But,  Papa,  dear.  Last  time  Alterchen  wanted 
to  hold  my  hand  in  his  all  the  time.  And  his  hand  is  so 
cold  and  so  full  of  wrinkles,  and  the  hairs  stand  out  on 
it  like  this.  {She  points  with  the  Anger  of  her  right  hand.) 
It's  just  like  a  dead  man's  hand. 

VoGELREUTER.  My  child,  come  here.  That  hairy  hand 
baptized  you  once,  do  you  understand?  And  when  you 
were  confirmed,  that  hairy  hand  was  laid  on  your  head. — 
And  now  do  you  grudge  warming  it  up  with  your  little 
child  paws  ?  Don't  ever  let  me  hear  such  a  thing  again. — 
A  kiss. 

(Trude  kisses  him.) 

Marikke.  {Who  meanwhile  has  approached  Georg, 
in  a  low  tone.)      Will  you  do  it?    Say. 

VoGELREUTER.     Come,  out  with  you. 

[43] 


^alipPii!lHP*8BW^(!!?ppp||pig|||B^^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

(Trude  and  Marikke  go  out.) 

VoGELREUTER.  Now  we're  both  here,  as  the  stork  said 
to  the  angleworm. 

Georg.  ( Who  has  been  looking  after  the  girls,  turning 
around.)  All  right;  I'm  ready.  But  as  for  being  gob- 
bled down,  I  won't  agree  to  that.  Take  care,  I'm  not 
very  digestible. 

Vogelreuter.     That  remains  to  be  seen. 

Georg.  What  more  do  you  want  of  me?  I  have  a 
good  position  on  the  sewerage  works,  a  ten  years'  contract 
with  the  Council,  the  direction  of  the  Pension  Bureau,  and 
can  become  City  Contractor — I'll  enjoy  the  fruits  of  my 
labor,  not  of  yours. 

Vogelreuter.     Oh  ho,  will  you  ? 

Georg.  Yes,  my  dear  Uncle,  if  you  wanted  to  get  off 
your  dowry  onto  her  husband,  you  ought  to  have  looked 
up  some  bankrupt  lieutenant.  They're  running  about 
wholesale  in  the  Royal  Gardens,  and  don't  even  so  much 
as  once  say  "thank  you." 

Vogelreuter.     You've  got  the  big-head  so — 

Georg.  (Interrupting.)  Granted.  And  I've  also  got 
— I've  got  nothing  but  grit.  Everything  that  I've  ac- 
complished in  my  life,  I've  accomplished  through  that. 

Vogelreuter.  (His  pride  cropping  out.)  Well,  a 
bit  of  industry  too. 

Georg.     That  was  grit  as  well. 

Vogelreuter.  Are  you  very  anxious  to  scrape  up  an- 
other row  like  the  one  we  had  twelve  years  ago  ? 

Georg.     If  it  must  be,  let  it  come. 

Vogelreuter.     Was  that  necessary  then? 

Georg.     You  ask  if  it  was  necessary?    I  came  in  va- 

[44] 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

cation  time,  an  innocent  youngster,  fresh  from  the  the  first 
form.  You  declared,  I  must  go  out  with  you  to  supper. 
Now,  see  here;  that  luxury  my  conscience  didn't  allow 
me.  Then  you  said:  "Very  well,  if  you  don't  obey  me, 
I'll  cut  you  out  of  your  allowance."  And  I  said  no  was 
my  answer.  And  so  it  was  settled.  It's  not  such  a  joke, 
I  assure  you,  to  starve  yourself  through  and  through,  but 
to-day  I  stand  before  you  a  free  and  independent  man, 
for  which  I  have  to  thank  my  consciousness  of  having, 
through  thick  and  thin,  alv/ays  gone  straight  ahead,  with- 
out concessions,  without  lies,  without  anyone  being  able  to 
pull  the  wool  over  my  eyes.  And  this  consciousness  is 
my  most  valuable  possession.  From  it  I  derive  all  my 
strength.    That  I  give  to  no  one. 

VoGELREUTER.  Who  wants  it  from  you,  I'd  like  to 
know  ? 

Georg.  Yes,  and  one  thing  more.  I  belong  to  your 
family.  Destiny  determined  that  for  me.  And  so  the 
idea  never  entered  my  head  of  taking  a  wife  from  any 
other.  So  much  do  I  feel  myself  a  part  of  yours.  But 
that  was  possible  only  because  since  that  day,  inwardly, 
mark  you,  inwardly,  I  was  always  free.  You're  a  very 
good  sort  of  a  man.  Uncle,  but  you  have  a  hard  fist.  I 
don't  choose  to  get  behind  it  again.  And  so  I  take  nothing 
more  from  you.    Now  nor  ever. 

Vogelreuter.     Oh  ho,  so  you're  afraid  of  me,  are  you  ? 

Georg.     I — afraid — ?      Bah! 

Vogelreuter.     And  so,  you're  nothing  but  a  coward. 

Georg.     I  warn  you  not  to  repeat  that. 

Vogelreuter.  You've  got  no  warning  to  do  in  my 
house,  you  bully.    I'm  master  here. 

[45] 


i«(^iWBpSiit!!*pil'::«pi|||pp 


■  -"V  '!fW"4 w.i|i!ip*SP5 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Georg.     Very  well.    So  be  it. 

VoGELREUTER.  It  doesn't  seem  to  please  you  to  have 
yourself  and  your  life  held  up  to  the  light  a  bit.  That's 
what's  the  matter. 

Georg.  My  life  up  to  today  lies  open  for  everyone's  in- 
spection. 

VoGELREUTER.  But  later,  perhaps  not — who  can  tell 
what's  before  you,  what  might  happen  over  night? 

Georg.     That  is  an  insult  that  / — 

VoGELREUTER.  (Planting  himself  stoutly  before  him.) 
What  then  ?   Come  on  with  you !    That  you  what,  then  ? 

(Mrs.  VoGELREUTER  and  Heimchen  come  in.) 

Mrs.  VoGELREUTER.  (Dressed  to  go  out.)  What  have 
you  been  doing  to  Trude,  Henry?  She's  sitting  up  in 
her  room  crying. 

VoGELREUTER.     Is  Alterchen's  eggwine  ready? 

Marikke.     It's  cooked,  but — 

VoGELREUTER.  Then  just  let  her  get  over  it:  she  can 
bring  the  wine  along  afterwards. 

Marikke.     Yes,  Papa. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     Can  we  go  now,  Henry  ? 

VoGELREUTER.     What  do  you  want  now  ? 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.    Just  to  know  if  we  can  go. 

VoGELREUTER.  Sit  down  in  the  other  room  a  minute ; 
we've  got  something  to  tend  to,  we  two. 

Mrs.  VoGELREUTER.  What's  the  matter  with  George? 
He's  so — 

Vogelreuter.  I've  been  making  a  fool  of  him.  It 
doesn't  seem  to  suit  him. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  (Patting  George.)  Just  be  pa- 
tient for  a  little,  George,  dear.  After  a  while ,  when  she's 
yours,  you  can  turn  the  laugh  on  us. 

[46] 


'•r"'*-?T-?^^^-t 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

VoGELREUTER.  (Half  to  himself.)  We'll  see  about 
that. 

(Mrs.  Vogelreuter  goes  out  with  Marikke). 

VoGELREUTER.  No  more  of  that.  Or  we'll  be  throw- 
ing manure  bouquets  at  each  other  before  long.  But  I've 
got  one  more  hard  hit  yet  for  you,  my  son. 

Georg.     I'm  ready  for  it. 

Vogelreuter.  My  child  loves  you.  You  are  her  idol. 
So  far  as  the  marriage  itself  goes  we're  not  going  to  med- 
dle into  that. — But  e — say,  what  right  have  you  got  to  be 
so  proud,  may  I  ask? 

Georg.     I  need  your  certificate  for  it,  I  suppose  ? — eh  ? 

Vogelreuter.  And  when  I  see  you  going  around  so, 
and  always  coming  down  heel  first,  it  seems  to  me  exactly 
as  if  your  dead  father  was  before  me. 

Georg.  ( With  a  start. )  What  do  you  want  with  my 
father?    He's  been  dead  now  this  twenty  year. 

Vogelreuter.  That  he  left  pe  the  task  of  raising  you, 
we'll  not  discuss,  though  it  wouldn't  be  out  of  place  for 
you  to  be  a  bit  more  careful  about  showing  your  teeth  at 
me,  but — e — 

Georg.  You  can  do  what  you  like  with  me.  Uncle, 
but  leave  my  father  in  peace ;  let  him  sleep. 

VoGELREUfER.  I  suppose  he  can  sleep  in  peace;  I've 
tended  to  that  for  him. 

Georg.     Do  you  mean  by  that — 

Vogelreuter.  Well,  who  was  it  then  that  paid  oflF  his 
note  when  he  lay  dead  ? 

Georg.  {After  a  silence.)  Uncle,  you  should  not  have 
said  that  to  me.  {He  sinks  into  a  chair  and  covers  his 
face  with  his  hands.) 

[47] 


,«»"' *'.!.— »-l»R.J^.^)S»f*«««WF®5^,IIJIJI^^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

VoGELREUTER.     Well,  my  boy, — {He  starts  to  speak, 

then  walks  up  and  down  in  silence.)     Look  here! — {He 

takes  a  cigar,  starts  to  light  it,  crushes  it  and  throws  it 
away) . 

Georg.     Uncle,  you  should  not  have  said  that. 

VoGELREUTER.     Heavens,  boy,  you  knew  it  already. 

Georg.  Yes,  I  knew  it.  And  still  you  should  not  have 
said  it.  Not  the  second  time.  That  time  twelve  years  ago 
when  we  were  quarreling,  and  you  reached  for  the  whip 
and  I  for  the  breadknife — 

VoGELREUTER.     Ycs,  I  shouldn't  have  done  that. 

Georg.  No;  neither  you  for  the  whip  nor  I  for  the 
knife.  Then  I  got  to  hear  it  the  first  time.  And  that  was 
exactly  the  reason  why  I  took  nothing  more  from  you. 
Now  you  know  it.  Then  I'd  have  scratched  the  gold  out 
of  the  earth  with  my  nails  to  throw  it  into  your  face.  I 
hated  you.    Ugh !    I  had  reason  to  hate  you. 

VoGELREUTER.  Merely  because  I  saved  your  father's 
reputation  ? 

Georg.  But  to  use  it  afterward  as  a  weapon  to  humili- 
ate me,  that  wasn't  fair  in  you. 

VoGELREUTER.     Well,  my  boy,  a  man  takes  what  comes. 

Georg.  Yes,  even  when  it's  a  lashings  Well,  I'm  as 
soft  as  a  piece  of  wash  leather  now.  I  realize  it :  it  is  true 
that  I  have  no  right  to  any  pride.  My  father's  disgrace 
shuts  me  out  of  that.  Out  with  whatever  you'll  give  me ; 
I'll  gather  it  in. 

VoGELREUTER.  Come,  come.  If  that's  the  way  you're 
going  to  talk,  I've  nothing  more  to  say  to  you.  The  end 
of  it  will  be  that  you'll  begin  to  hate  me  again. 

Georg.     Never  mind,  Uncle.     That's  past.     I'll  soon 

swallow  it  down.     Well? 

[48] 


»-3»" 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

VoGELREUTER.     George ! 

Marikke.  (At  the  door.)  Pardon  me,  Papa,  Mama 
wanted  me  to  ask  you  if  you  weren't  ever  going  to  be 
ready. 

VoGELREUTER.  So  far  as  I'm  concerned,  we're  ready 
now.  (Reaching  for  his  cap.)  He's  sort  of  scraping  him- 
self up  a  pile  of  misery.  Give  him  a  drink,  Heimchen,  ta 
put  the  marrow  into  his  bones  again — (He  goes  to  the 
door,  then  turns  back  again. )    George !  : 

Georg.     Uncle ! 

(VoGELREUTER  reaches  out  his  hand.) 

Georg.  My  hand  I  naturally  can't  refuse  you.  (They 
shake  hands.) 

VoGELREUTER.  And  I'll  havc  the  rest  too,  yet,  you  big- 
head,  confound  you.    (Vogelreuter  goes  out.) 

Marikke.     What  has  he  done  to  you  ? 

Georg.  Don't  ask.  Don't  ask.  (He  walks  about  the 
room.)  For  this  it's  been  pinch  and  shift  with  nothing 
but  the  one  object ;  to  be  free,  to  be  free.  And  now  you've 
got  to  knuckle  down  again.  If  the  child  wasn't  so  blame- 
less in  it  all,  it  would  make  a  man  clean  disgusted  with 
the  whole  business.    Well — then  into  the  yoke  again. 

Marikke.  (Timidly  trying  to  comfort  him.)  But  the 
yoke  is  easy  here,  George.  There's  nothing  but  love  in 
this  house,  I  think. 

Georg.     When  did  you  get  so  pious  again  ? 

Marikke.     I'm  not  pious. 

Georg.  What  was  that  you  said  a  while  ago?  I  am 
the  famine  child.  That  won't  take  something  for  nothing. 
— I  am  a  famine  child  too;  only  I  take  everything  for 
nothing. 

[49] 


'^'W5»!«SP^!PPPWWiWW«!WWf^^^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Marikke.     You — a  famine  child — you  ? 

Georg.  Well,  was  I  not  gathered  in  exactly  like  you  ? 
Am  I  not  a  stranger  in  this  house,  exactly  like  you  ?  Don't 
I  smother  under  their  goodness  exactly  like  you  ? 

Marikke.     I  am  glad  to  take  what  I  get. 

Georg.     And  you  are  glad  to  serve,  too  ? 

Marikke.     I  am  glad  to  serve. 

Georg.     But  /  want  to  rule,  you  see. 

Marikke.     And  you  shall  rule. 

Georg.     (Scornfully).  Oh  yes!     (He  walks  about.) 

Marikke.     George ! 

Georg.     Heh  ? 

Marikke.  Pardon  me;  have  you  forgotten  all  about 
that, — about  what  you — about — 

Georg.     Oh,  that's  so. 

Marikke.  I  know  I  ought  not  to  ask  you.  You  have 
so  many  things  on  your  mind.  You  weren't  going  to  do 
it  a  little  while  ago. 

Georg.  Now  I  will.  Ha-ha — ha-ha.  I'll  go  my  own 
way!  I'm  not  subject  to  any  ideas  of  duty.  I  promised 
you  and  I'll  do  it.    I'll  do  it  right  now. 

Marikke.    I  thank  you,  George.    Oh,  how  I  thank  you. 

Georg.     You'd  better  not  thank  me. 

Marikke.     Where  is  she  now ; 

Georg.  Down  there  behind  the  fence — in  the  garden — 
she's  sitting  out  there. 

Marikke.  Oh  God!  Don't  let  her  wait  any  longer. 
Bring  her  in — will  you  ? 

Georg.     Why,  Trude's  still  here. 

Marikke.  I'll  see  that  she  goes,  while  you're  out. 
When  I  come  out  onto  the  terrace,  she's  gone. 

[50] 


^^'^^S^'S^^Vf    t^"^'^-' ■^«?S'^2'^sy™3»'«^^  -^  ^     BP    -r-j^^asr  I       -       -•  '^-rc^- 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Georg.  Heimchen,  in  your  own  interest,  I  warn  you 
this  last  time.  Some  misfortune  or  other  will  surely  re- 
sult from  this. 

Marikke.  One  misfortune  more  in  the  world  doesn't 
matter. 

Georg.  And  so  you  are  like  that.  Well,  for  once,  I 
am,  too. — Now,  come  what  will.  (He  takes  up  his  hat  and 
goes  through  the  middle  door.) 

Marikke.  (Opening  the  door  at  the  left,  calls.)  Trude! 
Trude  dear!     (The  banging  of  a  door  is  heard.) 

Trude's  voice.  (Sounding  as  if  she  had  been  crying.) 
What  do  you  want? 

Marikke.     Come  quick !    Or  Papa'll  be  angry.  Come ! 

Trude's  voice.  I'll  be  down  in  a  minute.  (After  a 
fezu  seconds  she  appears  at  the  door.) 

Marikke.  Her  nose  is  all  red  with  crying.  (Caressing 
her.)  Who's  been  hurting  your  feelings,  darling?  Why 
are  you  crying  so  like  your  heart  would  break  ? 

Trude.     Where  is  George? 

Marikke.  (Lightly.)  Oh,  I  suppose  he's  gone  out 
into  the  fields  again. 

Trude.     He  did  not  tell  me  goodbye. 

Marikke.  He  heard  you  were  crying;  and  he  didn't 
want  to  bother  you — isn't  that  it  ? 

Trude.  What's  the  matter  with  your  eyes?  How 
queer  your  eyes  are ! 

Marikke.  They're  the  eyes  the  Lord  made  for  me: 
I  guess  you'll  have  to  be  satisfied,  dear. 

Trude.  (Mistrustfully.)  Well,  maybe.  (A  knocking 
is  heard  at  the  left  door.) 

Marikke.     Come  in. 

[51] 


f 


i«'"»!««!«PffP«»eS^^!^«|!ilipw  ' 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

A  Servant  Maid.  (Entering  with  a  basket.)  Here's 
the  wine  for  the  old  minister.  And  her're  a  few  cookies, 
too.    You  mustn't  break  them,  Mamsell  said. 

Marikke.     All  right. 

(The  Servant  goes  out.) 

Trude.     Well,  good-bye,  for  a  while,  Heimchen. 

Marikke.     Good-bye,  Trude,  dear. 

(Trude  picks  up  the  basket  and  starts  toward  the  mid- 
dle door.) 

Marikke.  (Watching  her  anxiously.)  Here! — 
where  are  you  going  that  way  ? 

Trude.  I'd  rather  go  through  the  garden  and  over 
the  field.    Perhaps  if  I  do,  I'll  meet  George. 

Marikke.  But  you  daren't  go  over  the  field — alone. 
Papa  has  forbidden  it. 

Trude.     But  perhaps  I'll  meet  George. 

Marikke.  And  what  if  you  don't  meet  him?  No,  no, 
I  can't  allow  that.  No,  I  can't  allow  it.  I'm  so  afraid 
tonight. 

Trude.     Heimchen,  do  you  really  care  for  me? 

Marikke.     Darling!     (They  embrace  each  other.) 

Trude.  Well,  then,  I'll  go  this  way.  (She  goes  again 
to  the  door  and  looks  in  every  direction.)  Give  my  love 
to  George. 

Marikke.     But  I  won't  see  him. 

Trude.     Won't  you  ? — Perhaps  you  will,  though. 

Marikke.     Then  I  will  give  him  your  love. 

Trude.  Well.  (She  goes  out  by  the  door  at  the 
right.) 

(Marikke  hurries  out  onto  the  terrace  and  motions 
down  into  the  garden,  then  she  bolts  the  doors  at  the 

[52] 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

right  and  left,  goes  again  to  the  middle  door  and  comes 
slowly  back,  looking  anxiously  about  her,  leans  against 
the  zvall  and  covers  her  face  with  her  hands. ) 

Georg.  Heimchen,  here  she  is !  {He  zvithdraws  to 
the  terrace  where  he  remains  sitting  with  his  back  toward 
the  house.) 

The  Weszkalnene.*  Missie,  you're  my  little  daughter 
— Missie — eh — Don't  be  afraid — no — You're  a  pretty 
Missie — eh — You've  got  a  bridegroom — eh?  Going  to 
be  married,  so  they  say. 

Marikke.  {Forcing  herself  to  speak.)  No,  I'm  not 
to  be  married.  That's  Trude,  my  sister,  who's  to  be  mar- 
ried. 

The  Weszkalnene.  Not  going  to  be  married  ?  Never 
mind,  never  mind. — You'll  get  married.  {She  feels  of 
Marikke' s  dress.)  You've  got  a  nice  dress  on — woolen; 
a  nice  woolen  dress  it  is.  {Catching  sight  of  Marikke' s 
silk  apron.)  Jesau!  Silk  apron!  You've  got  a  pretty 
silk  apron — Look !    Give  me  the  apron — ^give  it  to  me. 

Marikke.  {Taking  off  the  apron  and  giving  it  to  her.) 
There ! 

The  Weszkalnene.  Thanks,  Missie,  thanks !  {Kisses 
her  sleeves  and  waist  and  tries  to  take  her  hand  to  kiss 
that,  too.)    But  let  me  have  it. 

Marikke.  {Attxiously  drazving  back  her  hand.)  No, 
you  can't  have  that. 

The  Weszkalnene.  Never  mind,  never  mind. — You- 
're a  pretty  Missie.  {Looking  about  her.)  Vogelreuter's 
not  at  home,  is  he  ? 

The  Wetzkalneae's  speeches  are  a  cernglomerate  of  East  Prussian  and  Slavic, 
of  a  Tulgarity  of  style  of  which  it  is  impossible  to  give  any  adequate  idea  in 
English.  The  general  effect  might  perhaps  be  approached  on  the  stage  by  giv- 
ing the  vowels  long  sounds  something  as  in  the  Scotch  dialect. 

[53] 


rvsi^^^lflW^-^  •»  ■^^l!P.JJiJil«4ti>wlUip«p(l)|p|!f!W»p?l'(»l»*#*^^^^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Marikke.     No,  he  is  not  at  home. 

The  Weszkalnene.  That's  good,  that's  good. — He's 
a  devil,  Vogelreuter  is.  All  Germans  are  devils. — But 
it's  fine  here  in  his  house — Just  like  a  king's.  (Takes 
hold  of  the  cover  on  the  table.)  Pretty  woolen  cover  for 
the  table. — Ah,  Jesau !  the  pretty  linen !  The  white  linen  ! 
(Pointing.)  There,  my  little  love,  there! 

Marikke.     (Coming nearer.)    What  do  you  want ? 

The  Weszkalnene.  Give  me  a  sup.  A  weentie  teen- 
tie  sup,  so !  (Indicates  the  amount  with  her  thumb  and 
foretinger. ) 

Marikke.     Yes,  I'd  be  glad  to  do  that. 

(Marikke  goes  to  the  liquor  closet  which  hangs 
against  the  left  wall,  and  takes  doivn  a  'bottle  and  a  glass. 
In  the  meantime,  the  Weszkalnene  stuffs  a  few  pieces  of 
the  linens,  which  lie  on  the  table  near  by,  under  her  apron 
and  holds  her  left  hand  fast  dozvn  over  her  dress  Mean- 
tvhile  Marikke  tills  the  glass.) 

TuE  Weszkalnene.  Thanks,  Missie,  you're  a  good 
little  daughter,  Missie!  (She  drinks  and  runs  her  hand 
over  her  body  several  times.)  Good  stuff.  Give  me  an- 
other !    (Marikke  pours  out  another  glass  full.) 

The  Weszkalnene.  Thanks!  (Drinks.)  Thanks — 
Now  I  must  be  going. — Eh,  eh!  (She  goes  toivard  the 
background  and  drops  a  piece  of  the  underivear.) 

Marikke.     Moth — moth — what  have  you  got  there  ? 

The  Weszkalnene.  Jesau !  (She  picks  the  piece  up.) 
I  found  it  out  on  the  bleach.  (She  sticks  it  under  her 
arm. ) 

Marikke.  Let  the  linens  alone;  they  don't  belong  to 
you. 

[54] 


^^  <  i^yt  f -r-  ^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

The  Weszkalnene.  Never  mind,  never  mind.  (Lays 
it  down.) 

Marikke.     Give  me  the  rest  that  you  have. 

The  Weszkalnene.    I  haven't  any !  Jesau !  No. 

Marikke.     (Hurrying  to  the  door.)  George — George! 

Georg.     (Stepping  in.)      Heimchen? 

Marikke.     Give  me  a  piece  of  money. 

Georg.     (  Gives  her  a  gold  piece. ) 

Marikke.     Here,  take  this,  give  me  the  linens  back. 

The  Weszkalnene.  Jesau !  Little  daughter.  Ah,  lit- 
daughter,  gold !  (She  takes  the  other  pieces  of  under- 
wear from  under  her  apron  and  lays  them  on  the  table.) 
There,  my  love,  my  little  love. 

Marikke.     Go  now!  Go. 

The  Weszkalnene.  Eh ! — Little  daughter.  Yes,  lit- 
tle daughter.  Thanks.  (She  throws  her  a  kiss  from  the 
middle  door  as  she  goes  out. ) 

Marikke.  (Taking  down  the  key  from  the  keyboard 
and  giving  it  to  Georg.)  Here,  take  this,  lock  the  garden 
door  so  she  can't  come  back. 

(The  Weszkalnene  and  Georg  go  out.  Marikke 
looks  after  them  as  they  go  out,  then  turns  slowly  back, 
leans  on  the  table  and  stares  into  vacancy.  A  knock  is 
heard. ) 

Marikke.  (Calling,  mechanically.)  Come  in!  (The 
door  is  shaken. ) 

Voice  of  the  Servant  Maid.  It's  locked.  (Mar- 
ikke goes  and  opens  it.) 

The  Servant  Maid.  (With  a  pile  of  plates.)  I've 
got  to  set  the  table  for  supper.  Will  you  help  me  a  bit 
with  the  table  cloth,  Missie  ? — What  ails  you  ?  Can't  you 
hear  anything? 

[55] 


J«»!WP«^'».«-'i;»«^*nwiV*»ifcii .  '<!PiW!Wi4«IWil«i>>(U9WIWUi4IUV^^^^ 


BSS^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Marikke.     Set  them  down,  Lina,  I'll  do  it  myself. 

The  Servant  Maid.  As  you  say,  Missie !  (She  sets 
the  plates  down  and  goes  out.  Marikke  remains  stand- 
ing motionless  again.) 

Georg.  (Reentering.)  Well,  well,  Heimchen,  this 
will  have  to  be  put  through  now.  But  come  to  yourself ; 
this  won't  do — Heimchen,  don't  stare  so.  Better  to  cry — 
cry  it  out — 

Marikke.     Oh,  George!    (She  clings  to  him  crying.) 

Georg.  (Stroking  her  hair.)  Cry,  cry,  cry!  I  know 
how  it  hurts. — I've  felt  so,  too. 

Marikke.  Oh  George,  now  you  know  everything, 
now  I  have  no  one  in  the  world  but  you. 

Georg.  Yes,  yes. — We  both  understand  each  other. 
We  two — we  belong  together — don't  we? 

Marikke.     Oh,  God,  yes. 

Georg.  We  will  remember  to-day.  It  has  brought  us 
to  each  other.  It  is  the  day  before  St.  John's  night.  Will 
you  remember  it  ? 

Marikke.  (After  a  short  silence,  freeing  herself,  tim- 
idly.)    Go  away. 

Georg.  (Surprised.)  Why  have  I  got  to — go  away 
— all  of  a  sudden,  Heimchen  ? 

Marikke.  Go  away.  I  beg  you,  George.  I — must 
set  the  table  for  supper.    Go  away. 

Georg.  But,  Heimchen,  you  said  yourself  you  have 
no  one  but  me.    And  you  need  someone. 

Marikke.  If  you  do  not  hate  me,  then  go  away.  (In 
a  low  tone.)    Go  away. 

Georg.  (With  an  anxious  laugh.)  Why  should  I 
hate  you? — Well,  then  I  will  go  away.     (He  hesitates, 

[56] 


'^'^  ^'f}^'- 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

turns  'round  once  more  at  the  door  and  goes  out.    Mar- 
IKKE  falls  in  a  heap,  crying.) 

CURTAIN. 


[57] 


PPPipP«?«WiliPil|pi»ilLk  ,..}l    J  ) 


r^^f^.    -- 


ACT  III. 

{The  same  scenery.  Late  in  the  evening.  The  hanging 
lamp  burns  over  the  centre  table — another  lamp  on 
the  table  at  the  left.  The  glass  doors  are  opened  onto 
the  garden.  Moonlight  trickles  in.  Vogelreuter, 
Mrs.  Vogelreuter,  and  Haffke  sit  around  the  table 
at  the  left.  Trude  and  Georg  are  at  the  center  tahle.] 

Vogelreuter.  Well,  where's  Heimchen  keeping  her- 
self all  this  time  with  the  bowl  ? 

Haffke.  What?  You're  going  to  pass  tlie  bowl 
around,  Mr.  Vogelreuter? 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Oh  tonight's  St.  John's  night,  you 
know.  The  folks  around  burn  their  old  tar  barrels  up,^ 
and  we  have  our  bowl  of  wine  to  drink. 

Vogelreuter.  But  maybe  that's  too  paganish  a  feast 
for  a  high  clergyman  ? 

Haffke,  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter.  If 
the  clergymen  are  not  consulted,  it  is  paganish — 

Vogelreuter.  (Interrupting.)  And  when  the  cler- 
gy do  their  share  of  the  drinking,  then  it's  Christian. 

Haffke.  I  wasn't  going  to  say  that ;  you'll  have  to  ask 
the  Consistorium ;  they  know  all  those  things ;  they  are  so 
wise. 

Vogelreuter.  You  little  slyboots,  )'ou ! — Come,  what 
are  you  about  over  there?  You  haven't  peeped  once  to- 
night. 

[59] 


f!ifSP^P!WS'PW|B5!p||S|pip'!P^^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Trude.  George  is  so  lazy :  I  have  to  write  all  the  din- 
-nercards  myself ;  and  he's  painting  little  men. 

\^OGELREUTER.  You'd  better  be  painting  little  women, 
George. 

Georg.     Just  as  you  say,  my  dear  Uncle. 

^'0GELREUTER.  The  boy's  in  a  tearful  way,  today. 
Come,  be  merry,  children.  It's  St.  John's  night.  And 
here  comes  the  bowl. 

(Marikke  comes  in  with  a  tray  on  which  are  a  punch 
tureen  and  glasses.) 

Vogelreuter.  Come,  speak  up.  Mar  jell ;  make  your- 
self heard.    Trude,  help  pass  it  'round. 

Trude.     Yes,  Papa. 

Vogelreuter.  (Drinking  and  drazving  in  his  breath.) 
'Vhoo — ooo — that's  good.  I  tell  you.  Your  Reverence, 
the  man  that's  got  that  and  has  the  seltzer  water  to  go 
with  it  in  his  house,  he's  living  on  the  top  shelf. 

Trude.  ( With  a  glass,  behind  Georg,  zvho  has  stepped 
to  the  right  and  is  looking  out.)  George  dear, — George, 
don't  you  want  any? 

Georg.  (Petting  her,  with  a  timid  look  at  Marikke.) 
Yes,  my  darling!  Thank  you,  my  darling. — ^Just  look, 
friends,  what  a  racket  the  moon's  kicking  up  tonight! 
Everything's  like  silver,  all  woven  in  a  white  web.  Oh, 
what  a  world  it  is ! 

Marikke.  (Anxiously.)  If  the  fires  would  only  burn 
up  now ! 

Vogelreuter.  Well!  A  word  from  you  at  last!  I 
thought  you'd  lost  your  tongue  over  night.  Come  here, 
you  little  sheepshead.  (To  the  others.)  But  first  your 
health.  Your  health,  all.  His  Reverence  will  give  us  a 
toast  after  little,  a  heathen  toast. 

[60] 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Haffke.     Well. 

VoGELREUTER.  (To  Marikke.)  Say,  is  that  so,  that: 
you've  got  to  go  off  to  Konigsberg  again  tonight  ? 

Marikke.    Yes,  Papa. 

VoGELREUTER.     But  I  won't  allow  it,  you  see. 

Marikke.  Papa,  I  asked  you  a  couple  of  weeks  ago 
if  I  could  go  to  Konigsberg  a  few  times  to  see  about 
things  and  you  said  I  could. 

VoGELREUTER.  But  not  in  the  night  time,  my  little  an- 
gel. 

Marikke.  But  I  have  to  go  in  the  night.  The  work- 
men are  all  engaged  by  seven  o'clock.  If  I  don't  go  in  the 
night,  I  can't  get  there  in  time. 

Mrs.  VoGELREUTER.  Let  her  alone,  Henry.  It  can't 
very  well  be  otherwise. 

VoGELREUTER.     But  just  look  at  the  girl. 

Marikke.     Why  so  ?    Why  I'm  all  right. 

VoGELREUTER.      LaUgh ! 

Marikke.     (Forcing  herself  to  laugh.)     Ha-ha. 

VoGELREUTER.  Oh  yes,  fine.  (Imitating  her  with  a 
zvoeful  clatter.)     Ha-ha. 

Mrs.  VoGELREUTER.  Come  here,  child !  Bend  over ! 
(She  looks  carefully  at  her  and  pets  her.)  Did  you  sleep 
well,  last  night — hm? 

Marikke.     Yes,  Mama. 

VoGELREUTER.  And  what  if  the  strange  fellow  should 
get  after  you  again  ? 

Haffke.     Pardon  me,  what  has  happened  ? 

VoGELREUTER.  Oh  nothing  much.  Nothing,  nothing. 
— You  want  to  go  on  the  one  o'clock  train  then  ? 

Marikke.      Yes,  Papa. 

[6i] 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

VoGELREUTER.  But  there's  another  one  at  four;  it's 
getting  daylight  then  at  least. 

Marikke.     But  then,  I'd  get  there  too  late. 

VoGELREUTER.  Well,  then  don't.  You  can  stay  up,  too, 
George,  and  take  Marikke  to  the  train. 

Marikke.     (/;;  alarm.)     George? 

Georg.     (In  alarm.)     I? 

VoGELREUTER.     What  now  ?    Why  not  ? 

Haffke.  If  it's  not  too  bold  in  me,  I  would  gladly  put 
myself  at  your  disposal. 

VoGELREUTER.  Ncvcr  mind.  Your  Reverence.  Your 
turn  will  come  too  in  time.  He's  got  to  learn  to  be  some 
good  around  the  house. 

Trude.  And  maybe  I  can  go  along  with  them,  can  I 
Papa  ?      I  love  so  to  go  out  walking  nights. 

VoGELREUTER.  You  don't  Say.  Oh  I  see,  the  way  back 
— heh  ?  No,  my  little  Goldie,  lovers  can't  be  going  around 
so  late  at  night,  unless  they  have  a  chaperone  along. 

Marikke.  I'd  rather  go  all  alone.  Papa.  I'm  not  in 
the  least  afraid.  I  don't  want  to  tire  George  all  out ;  nor 
anyone  else  either.    Really  I  don't. 

VoGELREUTER.  We  weren't  talking  of  anyone  else. 
They  all  have  to  be  up  and  about  by  three.  (  To  Georg. ) 
And  what's  your  reason  ? 

Georg.  Hm !  An  excellent  reason !  She  doesn't  zvant 
me  with  her.    You  just  heard  her  say  so  yourself. 

VoGELREUTER.  You  Seem  to  be  at  outs  with  one  an- 
other again. 

Mrs.  VoGELREUTER.  If  they're  both  set  against  it, 
Henry,  don't  torment  them. 

VoGELREUTER.     I'll  have  to  make  some  inquiries  from 

[62] 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Plotz  first.     (Calling.)    Plotz !— Well,  your  health.     (He 
touches  glasses  ivith  the  assistant  pastor.) 

(Trude  and  Marikke  run  to  the  door  and  speak  to 
someone  outside.) 

A  Woman's  Voice.  Mr.  Plotz,  Mr.  Vogelreuter  wants 
you. 

Plotz's  Voice.  All  right,  Mr.  Vogelreiter.  (He  en- 
ters.) 

Vogelreuter.  See  here !  Plotz.  Give  him  a  glass 
from  the  bowl,  Heimchen.  The  man's  so  dry  he  fairly 
rattles. 

Plotz  (Bashfully,)  Why,  I've  just  had  a  glass  of 
beer  to  drink. 

Vogelreuter.     From  the  Plotzian  private  cellar,  heh? 

Plotz.     No,  no.    Mamsell  brought  it  out  to  me. 

Vogelreuter.  Oh  ho !  You've  been  having  a  little 
drinking  party  with  Mamsell — heh?  A  sort  of  insur- 
ance' against  dryness — heh  ? 

Plotz.  Oh  please,  Mr.  Vogelreiter.  Don't  put  me  to 
shame  before  the  young  ladies. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  He  doesn't  really  mean  anything 
by  it,  you  know,  Mr.  Plotz. 

Plotz.  ( To  Marikke  who  brings  him  a  glass. )  Thank 
you,  Missie. 

Vogelreuter.  (In  a  low  tone.)  Listen,  Plotz! 
(Aloud.)  Don't  disturb  yourselves  friends.  You  can  be 
thinking  us  out  a  good  toast,  Your  Reverence.  (In  a 
lower  tone.)  Have  you  got  any  wind  of  the  stranger 
yet? 

Plotz.  Not  a  stitch  of  him,  Mr.  Vogelreiter.  There 
were  a  couple  of  tramps  at  "The  Sign  of  the  Cup"  two  or 

[63] 


/ 


''W!^w^?^'^'r''"^^smasmirf!9^f'^m!Sif^&^img^^m 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

three  days  ago,  but  the  police  made  quick  work  of  them. 
Aside  from  that,  there's  not  a  strange  louse  in  the  whole 
town. 

VoGELREUTER.  If  I  Only  didn't  have  to  count  so  much 
on  the  little  Marjellan. — You,  Heimchen,  come  here ! 

Marikke.  (Stepping  in  front  of  him.)  What  do  you 
want.  Papa? 

Vogelreuter.  (Looking  sharply  at  her.)  That's  all. 
You  can  go  ag'ain. 

Plotz.  But  while  I  was  looking,  I  did  see  the  old 
Weszkalnene  again. 

Vogelreuter.     Sh !     Lower !     Where  ? 

Plotz.  She  was  sitting  down  at  "The  Sign  of  the 
Cup,"  and  had  money. 

Vogelreuter.     Where's  she  stolen  that  ? 

Plotz.  Who  knows?  Prechtel  said  he  saw  her  have 
a  gold  piece — You  can  reckon  on  it,  Mr.  Vogelreiter,  she 
hasn't  given  up  the  pilfering.  We'll  soon  get  a  hold  of 
her. 

Vogelreuter.  Does  she  sleep  at  "The  Sign  of  the 
Cup"? 

Plotz.  Yes,  where  ?  that's  the  question.  She  stays  out 
by  the  road  nights  and  when  morning  comes,  there  she 
is  again,  Prechtel  said. 

Vogelreuter.     Well,  that's  reason  enough.     George  I 

Georg.     Uncle  ? 

Vogelreuter.  I've  been  considering  the  matter ;  you'll 
have  to  go  with  Heimchen,  anyway. 

Georg.     If  you  say  so. 

Vogelreuter.  And  don't  get  to  scratching  each  other's 
eyes  out  again. 

■        [64]  • 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Marikke.    (Without  expression.)    No,  no. 

Trude.  ( Who  has  gone  out  onto  the  terrace.)  There — 
there — look !  The  first  one — it's  burning !  (A  red  flame 
leaps  up.  Singsong  and  laughter  are  heard  in  the  dis- 
tance. ) 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Have  you  looked  to  it,  Plotz. — 
Is  it  far  enough  from  the  sheds? 

Plotz.     Sure,  Mrs.  Vogelreiter. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  For  last  year  the  sparks  flew 
clear  up  onto  the  straw  thatch. 

Trude.  Yonder  there,  the  second  one!  And  out  on 
the  sandhill,  another.    Just  look,  George,  how  beautiful ! 

Georg.     I  see,  darling,  I  see ! 

Trude.  {Drawing  him  toward  the  front  of  the  stage 
in  a  low  tone.)  You  call  me  darling  all  the  time  today. 
Why  do  you  do  that  ? 

Georg.     Shall  I  not  ? 

Trude.  Oh  always !  Do  you  love  me  more  today  than 
usual  ? 

Georg.     I  always  love  you  just  the  same. 

Trude.  {In  alow  blissful  tone.)  Before  you  have  al- 
ways said  little  one:  today  you  always  .=ay  darling. 

Vogelreuter.     And  now,   my   dear  pastor,  take  the 

glass  into  your  paws  and  let  us  have  your  toast. 

Haffke.  But  I  can't  promise  you  that  it  will  be  very 
heathenish. 

Vogelreuter.  Oh  ho,  old  man,  you're  trying  to  get 
out  of  it.    The  Consistorium's  stuck  in  your  crop. 

Haffke.  Well,  what  a  good  Lithuanian'  crop  it  isf 
But  now  let  us  speak  in  earnest.  Well,  how  shall  I  say- 
it?    I  don't  want  to  preach  you  a  sermon. 

Vogelreuter.     No,  no,  next  Sunday. 

[65] 


^i?^PfPPi|iji|ipi|lpi|pi'  wmmmmmmmm 


K:.- 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Haffke.     But,  you  see,  when  in  such  a  summer  nig^t 
as  tonight,  we  dream  our  dreams — can  I  say  dream  ?      ) 
VoGELREUTER.     Yes,  you  can  say  dream. 
Haffke.     For  well  nigh  all  of  us  do  it  whether  we're 
young  or  old. 

VoGELREUTER.  Oh  ves !  It's  a  bad  habit  we  all  have. 
Haffke.  And  then  we  become,  you  know,  so  broad, 
so  clear  of  vision, — as  if  we  could  solve  all  riddles  and  un- 
bind all  wonders,  and  shape  good  from  trifling  common- 
places, and  happiness  from  vain  striving;  yes,  what  is  it 
then,  what  is  it  that  stirs  and  works  within  us  and — and 

?    Why,  always  that  same  measure  of  love  that  was 

born  in  us  and  that  fills  our  lives,  and  that — ^to  be  brief — 
that  is  our  very  life  itself.  Am  I  right? — And  now  I  make 
a  long  leap.  In  the  revelations  of  our  Gospels,  it  stands 
written,  God  is  love.  Well,  if  God  is  this  love — ^and  it 
is  a  fine  point  of  our  religion  to  ascribe  the  best  in  us  to 
our  beloved  Lord — how  could  I  then  tonight,  when  our 
hearts  are  so  full,  pass  by  his  goodness?  And  therefore, 
Mr.  Vogelreuter,  no  matter  whether  I  am  a  clergyman  or 
not — for  worth  must  come  from  the  heart.  I  take  it,  not 
from  the  dress — therefore  I  cannot  put  my  null  heart  into 
any  pagan  toast. 

VoGELREUTER.  {Pressing  his  hand.)  You  have  spok- 
en well.    Pardon  me.    I  was  merely  joking  anyway. 

Georg.  No,  not  entirely,  my  dear  Uncle.  There  I'll 
have  to  defend  you  against  yourself.  Such  a  religious 
man  as  you  are,  it  was  not  mere  rebellion  in  you  a  little 
while  ago  that  you  wanted  to  hear  something  paganish. 
And  since  the  assistant  pastor  will  not  give  the  toast,  I 
Avill  give  it  myself.    For  you  see,  Your  Reverence,  a  spark 

[66] 


'^^^^'  '^r^^'-ww^^^r'^  ^r^"^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

of  the  heathen  smoulders  in  us  all.  It  has  come  down 
from  old  German  times  a  thousand  years  ago.  Once  in 
the  year  it  flames  up  high  and  then  it  is  called — St.  John's 
Fire.  Once  in  the  year  there  is  a  marriage  night.  Yes,  a 
marriage  night.  Then  the  witches  ride  out  on  their  broom- 
sticks, those  same  broomsticks  with  which  they  are  wont 
to  work  their  spells,  laughing  high  toward  Blocksberg  in 
the  clouds — then  the  wild  throng  strides  over  the  forest 
ways — then  there  awaken  in  our  hearts  the  wild  wishes 
that  life  has  not  fulfilled,  and  mark  you  well,  can  not  ful- 
fill. For  no  matter  what  we  call  that  order  which  rules 
here  in  the  world,  through  which  the  one  wish  may  come 
to  pass,  through  whose  mercy  we  drag  out  our  existence, 
a  thousand  others  must  perish  wretchedly — some  perhaps, 
hecause  they  were  ever  unattainable — the  others,  ah  the 
others, — because  we  have  let  them  slip  away  like  wild 
birds,  over  which  (with  a  gesture)  our  hands  closed  all 
too  late. — However  that  may  be,  once  in  the  year  there  is 
a  marriage  night,  and  the  fire  that  burns  then,  do  you 
know  what  it  is?  It  is  the  ghost  of  our  dead  wishes,  it 
is  the  red  plumage  of  the  birds  of  Paradise,  that  we  might 
perhaps  have  nourished  all  our  lives  and  that  have  flown 
away  from  us, — ^it  is  the  old  chaos, — it  is  the — it  is  the 
pagan  in  us.  And  be  we  ever  so  happy  hereafter  in  day- 
light and  restraint,  tonight  is  St.  John's  night.  My  glass 
to  your  old  heathen  fires, — tonight  let  them  flame  high, 
and  higher,  and  ever  higher. — Does  no  one  drink  with 
me? 

(A  silence.) 

rylARiKKE.  (Trembling.)  I  drink  with  you.  (They 
drink  zvith  their  eyes  fast  iixed  on  each  other.) 

[67] 


'fS'??W^f^P?'PP^'R"^'''^''WlipWP 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Trude.     (Anxiously.)     And  I  too,  George,  dear. 

Georg.  Yes,  you  too !  (He  pets  her  tenderly  and  com- 
passionately.) 

VoGELREUTER.  What  do  you  understand  of  that,  you 
Httle  sheepshead?  I  didn't  understand  it  all  myself, 
only  got  an  idea  of  it.    The  gist  of  it's  wicked. 

Haffke.  I  trust,  my  dear  Mr.  von  Hartwig,  that  God 
is  watching  over  the  pagan  in  you  too.  And  therefore  I 
am  quite  resigned  to  drink  with  you. 

Vogelreuter.  Well,  then,  I  am,  too.  ( They  drink  the 
toast.  A  iire  flames  up  near  at  hand  behind  the  trees.  The 
cries  and  shouting  sound  nearer.) 

Vogelreuter.     What  does  that  mean  ? 

Plotz.     Lord !    Now  they  are  by  the  sheds. 

Vogelreuter.  Didn't  I  tell  you  to  look  out  for  them, 
man? 

Plotz.  I  did  look  out  for  them,  Mr.  Vogelreiter.  They 
had  three  old  tar  barrels ;  where  they  got  the  fourth  is 
more  than  I  know.  I  suppose  they've  stolen  the  wagon 
grease. 

Vogelreuter.     Didn't  you  lock  up  the  wagon  grease  ? 

Plotz.  i\.ch!  It's  a  mighty  little  that  helps  on  St. 
John's  night,  Mr.  Vogelreiter.  If  they  get  a  whiff  of  any- 
thing to  burn,  they'll  dig  their  way  into  it.  Why,  if  you 
should  give  them  a  fat  ham  tonight,  they'd  toss  it  into' 
the  fire. 

Vogelreuter.  Oh,  close  up  that  fool  nonsense,  and 
go  look  after  them.  I'll  come  out  myself  in  a  minute.— 
Be  off  with  you,  quick. 

Plotz.     Yes,  Mr.  Vogelreiter.     (He  goes  out.) 

Vogelreuter.     Such  a  lout!     There's  no  putting  any 

[68] 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

trust  in  the  fellow.    My  cap !    (Marikke  gives  it  to  him.) 

Trude.     Can  we  go  with  you,  Papa?    Oh  yes,  please. 

VoGELREUTER.  {To  Mrs.  Vogelreuter.)  Do  you  want 
to  go,  too? 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Yes,  I'd  love  to.  And  please, 
don't  scold  them.  There's  no  wind  tonight;  nothing  can 
happen. 

Vogelreuter.  Won't  hurt  them  any  to  dress  them 
down  a  bit.  Come  on.  Your  Reverence.  (Trude,  Georg, 
Vogelreuter  and  Mrs.  Vogelreuter  go  out.) 

H.'\FFKE.     And  aren't  you  going.  Miss  Heimchen? 

Marikke.  Thank  you,  Your  Reverence,  I  am  not  go- 
ing with  them. 

Haffke.     Then  may  I  stay  with  you  a  little  while  ? 

Voices  of  the  Others.  Your  Reverence !  Your  Rev- 
erence ! 

Haffke.  {Calling  out.)  You  go  on;  I'll  come  in  a 
minute. — Well,  may  I? 

Marikke.     Certainly,  if  it's  any  pleasure  to  you. 

Haffke.  Pleasure  is  hardly  the  right  word,  Miss 
Heimchen.  But  what  I  was  going  to  say  was  that  it  was 
right  kind  in  you  to  speak  to  me  of  the  little  bridal  poem. 
I  got  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  out  of  writing  it.  Did  you 
like  it  ? 

Marikke.     Oh,  very  much,  I  thank  you. 

Haffke.     Do  you  know  it  by  heart? 

Marikke.     I  think  so. 

Haffke.  Won't  you  say  it  to  me,  I'll  help  you  a  little  ? 
"The  flowers  are  the  virgin's  comrades" — well?  "They 
twine  themselves  soft — through? — ^her  fate."  Well,  how 
is  it,  won't  you  say  it? 

[6^] 


||pR«IWj»»jNI}!«!ipp*J.»^^^^^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Marikke.     No. 

Haffke.  You  are  so  quiet  today,  Miss  Heimchen.  Is 
something  worrying  you  ? 

Marikke.  St.  John's  night  worries  me,  Your  Rever- 
ence. 

Haffke.     It  will  soon  be  over. 

Marikke.     Ah,  if  it  were  over  now ! 

Haffke.  You  don't  like  to  travel  alone  at  night,  I'm 
afraid. 

Marikke.  (Indifferently.)  Oh — (recollecting  her- 
self) No,  not  very  well.  But  that  doesn't  help  matters 
any. 

Haffke.  Shall  I  go  with  you  ?  I  can  scrape  up  some 
business  in  Konigsberg,  you  know.  That  won't  take  a 
very  long  leave  of  absence.  I'd  like  so  well  to  attend  the 
Color-club ;  otherwise  one's  apt  to  get  so  countrified,  you 
know.  And  there's  still  time  to  ask  Alterchen.  I'll  go 
right  now  to  his  room.     No  doubt  he's  awake. 

Marikke.  And  tell  Alterchen,  please — that  I'd  been 
expecting  each  day  to  get  over  to  see  him  for  a  little 
while ;  now  I  can't  come  over  before  the  wedding.  Will 
you  tell  him  that?  And  that  I  love  him,  and  in  imagina- 
tion kiss  his  hands.    Will  you  tell  him  that? 

Haffke.  Certainly,  certainly. — And  how  about  my 
going  along  ? 

Marikke.     No,  no,  Your  Reverence,  I  thank  you. 

Haffke.  Now  let  us  speak  frankly.  I  have  been  think- 
ing of  you  the  whole  evening.  I  have  been  think- 
ing of  you  longer  than  that.  You  appear  in  my  thoughts 
like — what  shall  I  say  ? — Like  a  little  mouse  before  which 
the  cat  is  sitting.  You  need  a  protector,  Heimchen ;  you 
need  someone  whom  you  can  trust. 

[70] 


•^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Marikke.  Perhaps  Your  Reverence  might  become 
my  father  confessor? 

Haffke.  Well,  that's  an  institution  we  don't  have — we 
Evangelicans.    But  if  a  frequent  blessiag  would  do — 

Marikke.    (Smiling  aside.)  Not  frequent. 

Haffke.  You  are  right.  Man  must  school  himself 
to  independence.    He  must  learn  to  do  for  himself. 

Marikke.     And  I  do.    I  do,  Your  Reverence,  I  do. 

Haffke.  And  still,  dear  Heimchen — I  don't  know 
why  I  should  call  you  dear  Heimchen — it  wasn't  a  bit  be- 
coming in  me,  pardon  me — I  must  speak  frankly  to  you ; 
you  have  some  fear. 

Marikke.     Of  the  cat? 

Haffke.     If  I  knew  of  what ! 

Marikke.  Oh,  if  /  were  the  cat — and  who  else  the 
mouse  ? 

Haffke.     That  was  very  naughty  in  you. 

Marikke.  But  can  one  not  be  the  cat  and  the  mouse 
at  the  same  time? 

Haffke.  (Thoughtfully.)  Yes,  one  can;  but  then 
he's  playing  with  his  own  destruction. 

Marikke.    Who  cares  whether  we're  destroyed  or  not  ? 

Haffke.  Heimchen,  dear  Heimchen,  you  must  not 
talk  so. 

Marikke.  Yes,  it  is  folly.  It  is  pure  folly.  But  nev- 
er mind — Tonight  is  St.  John's  night.  Look!  The  fire 
in  front  there — they  had  to  put  that  out.  But  back  there 
on  the  hill — ^there — ^there — Ah,  how  beautiful  it  looks 
and  wild — 

Haffke.  And  when  you  get  to  it,  it's  nothing  but  a 
pile  of  dirty  boards. 

[71] 


iiiiiiiiiiaiiiimj|^«iii^mppiipiigii      ..i.*..i,,.L      .  ijmiwiijyppiipjpjpiii^^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Marikke.     Oh  shame ! 

Haffke.  So  it  is  with  all  that  shines  and  is  not  the 
sun. 

Marikke.  You  shall  not  say  that.  I  will  not  allow  it. 
I  won't  let  my  St.  John's  fire  be  found  fault  with.  I  will 
have  my  joy  in  it.  Tonight — only  tonighl — then  never 
again. 

IlAfFKE.  (Moved.)  Dear  Heimchen,  I  know  not  what 
is  within  you.  Nor  will  I  try  to  find  out.  But  in  your 
struggle — I  want  you  to  know  that  a  friend  is  beside  you 
whom  you  can  trust  now  and  forever.  Heimchen,  I  do 
not  know  how  to  say  it;  I  would  bear  you  in  my  arms 
forever.  Heimchen,  you  would  be  well  cared  for  with 
me. — 

Marikke.     Do  you  not  know  who  I  am  ? 

Haffke.     I  know,  I  know. 

Marikke.     And  who  my  mother  is? 

Haffke.     I  know  all. 

Marikke.  Then  how  else  am  I  to  understand  that — 
than — 

Haffke.  Heimchen,  I  should  not  have  said  it  yet, — 
I  know,  it  comes  too  soon,  it  should  have  developed  first — 
it  should  slowly  and  secretly  have — it  was  unbecoming  in 
me,  I  know,  but  I  fear  for  you — /  have  a  fear,  too,  Heim- 
chen ! — I  don't  know  who  is  to  meet  you  at  the  train  in 
Konigsberg  this  morning ! — But  I  want  you  to  know  then 
where  you  belong.  I  want  you  to  know  who  you  are  and 
what  your  future  is  to  be. 

Marikke.  (Attempting  to  speak  lightly,  almost  groan- 
ing.) Oh — oh — oh — 

Haffke.     I  won't  ask  for  your  answer  now.     I  must 

[72] 


■•'^<^«3=»^5»«'''5f»3^K!prjtf^5](^JH^^!!*a«»SSF5»^-^^^  ■»  5    '■=-5fC- 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

write  to  my  father  first,  too.  He  mustn't  feel  that  he's 
neglected  because  he's  only  a  farmer. — Heimchen! 

Marikke.  ( Yielding  without  expression. )  That — may 
be — what — I — need. — Oh — oh!  {She  allows  herself  to 
sink  into  a  chair.) 

Haffke.  What  ails  you?  Do  you  want  a  glass  of 
water  ?    Do  you  want  a  glass  of  wine  ? 

Marikke.  Wine — from  the  bowl  there — wine.  (Haff- 
ke brings  it  to  her. ) 

Marikke.  Thank  you.  {She  drinks.)  No  one  ever 
brought  me  anything  before. 

Haffke.     I  will  lay  my  heart  at  your  feet. 

Marikke.  But  no  one  is  to  know  it  before  the  wed- 
ding. 

Haffke.  But  perhaps  at  the  wedding.  Perhaps  dur- 
ing the  ceremony,  Papa  could  stand  up  and  say,  "We  have 
another  bridal  pair  in  our  midst."  That  would  be  a  very 
nice  way,  Heimchen. 

Marikke.  No,  no.  I  still  have  too  much  to  do  at  tlie 
wedding.  I  have  to  see  that  everything  goes  off  right  at 
the  table  and  that  Trude  comes  through  well. 

Haffke.     But  then,  when  they  are  gone  away  ? 

Marikke.  {With  great  emphasis.)  When  they  arc 
gone  away — then,  yes. 

Haffke.  {Taking  her  hands.)  I  thank  you,  Heim- 
chen— I — 

Marikke.  {Drawing  back  from  him.)  Be  still. 
(  Voices  are  heard  outside.    Trude  comes  in. ) 

Trude.  Oh,  here  you  are,  Your  Reverence ;  we've  been 
looking  everywhere  for  you. 

Haffke.     I'll  come  out  at  once,  my  dear  young  lady. 

[73] 


-Jjj^.^ij^UMl^g.BltPJpBBiPJI^^SWWBg^^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Trude.     Oh,  we're  all  back  again  now — 

Haffke.  It's  not  possible.  One  is  often  delayed  with- 
out knowing  why  himself.     {He  goes  out.) 

Marikke.  (Throzviiig  her  arms  passionately  around 
Trude.)     Do  you  love  me,  darling? 

Trude.     {Dejectedly.)     Oh,  /  always  love  ^^om. 

Marikke.  Why  do  you  say  it  that  way?  I  have 
done  everything.  I  have  done  everything.  You  must  love 
me  now. 

(VoGELREUTER,  Mrs.  Vogelreuter,  Haffke  and  Georg 
covie  in.) 

Vogelreuter.  Well,  well,  my  dear  pastor, — a  man 
does  what  he  can,  as  the  badger  said  to  the  porcupine,  and 
he  bit  his  snout  till  it  bled.  So  better  have  something  to 
drink  and  not  excuse  yourself  so  much.  You're  only 
making  the  matter  worse. 

H.VFFKE.  Do  you  know,  I'm  just  going  to  hurry  up 
and  say  "goodnight."  Why,  here  I  get  nothing  but  teased. 

Vogelreuter.     You  get  loved,  you — 

Haffke.  Well,  do  you  suppose  that  I  don't  feel  that? 
And  that  I  don't  appreciate  it?  Or  I'd  have  shown  my 
teeth  at  you  already. 

Vogelreuter.     Come,  give  us  a  sight  of  them  once. 

Haffke.     {IVith  a  happy  look  at  Marikke.)     Not  I! 

— Good  night.     {He  shakes  hands  with  all.) 

Vogelreuter.     {To  himself.)     Oh  yes. 

Haffke.      Good  night.  Miss  Heimchen. 

Marikke.  Good  night.  Your  Reverence.  {They  shake 
hands.) 

Vogelreuter.  {To  Georg  who  has  come  a  few  steps 
forward  and  stands  absorbed  in  thought.)  See  him  out, 
George. 

[74] 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Georg.     (Rousing  himself.)    All  right,  Uncle. 

(Haffke  and  Georg  go  out.) 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Well,  well,  now  I  suppose  we're 
soon  to  be  left  all  alone,  Henry. 

Vogelreuter.  Too  bad !  But  that's  the  way  it  goes, 
wife. — -It's  eleven  o'clock.    Up,  up  with  you  and  into  bed  ! 

Trude.    Good  night,  Papa. 

Vogelreuter.  Good  night,  little  Frousie!  (Tender- 
ly.)    Little  one,  little  one. 

Marikke.     Good  night. 

Vogelreuter.  Oh,  that  makes  me  think.  When  are 
you  coming  back? 

Marikke.     Tomorrow  night  at  ten,  Papa. 

Vogelreuter.  And  be  reasonable,  do  you  understand  ? 
Don't  wear  yourself  out  for  nothing  so  you  won't  be  any 
good  for  the  wedding. 

Marikke.     No,  no. 

Vogelreuter.     Give  me  a  kiss.     (She  kisses  him.) 

Georg.  ( Who  has  just  stepped  in.)  We  have  an  hour 
and  a  quarter  yet.  I'll  wait  down  here  for  you,  Heimchen. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  You  can  keep  each  other  com- 
pany, children ;  then  the  time  won't  seem  so  long  to  either 
of  you. 

Trude.     Oh  me,  too,  can  I? 

Vogelreuter.  Haven't  you  got  enough  syrup  on  your 
tongue  yet  ?    You  go  to  bed  and  sleep. 

Trude.     Well,  good  night,  then. 

Marikke.  (Stopping.)  I  can't — stay  down  stairs 
either.  I've  got  some  things  I  want  to  ask  you  about,  Ma- 
ma. 

Georg.     Then  come  down  when  it's  time  to  go. 

[75]         ■ 


>V  V»'ilfiN|9'*^''   "  =^*''!'!miPI<<l'^>^W|MiJJ^IiPlltp^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Marikke.     Yes,  I'll  come  then. 

Mrs.     Vogelreuter.     Good  night,  George  dear. 

Georg.     Good  night,  Aunt. 

(Mrs.  Vogelreuter,  Marikke  and  Trude  go  out.) 

^"0GELREUTER.     You  know  where  the  .cigars  are? 

Georg.     Yes. 

^'^0GELREUTER.  And  if  vou'll  have  another  little  drink 
from  the  bowl,  I'll  let  the  key  hang  a  while. 

Georg.     Thank  you. 

\oGELREUTER.  See  here,  boy,  is  this  sort  of  a  style  to 
go  on  between  us  ? 

Georg.  What  sort  of  a  style,  my  dear  Uncle?  If  I 
have  been  disrespectful  toward  you  in  any  way,  I  beg 
your  pardon. 

^^0GELREUTER.  Respect,  bah !  You  can  go  black  your 
boots  with  your  respect.  There!  a  puflf — {he  puifs  )  on 
your  cursed  respect. 

Georg.     Well,  then,  what  else? 

Vogelreuter.  See  here,  perhaps  I  was  wrong.  It's 
not  unlikely. 

Georg.     Wrong  ?    You  ?    How  so  ? 

Vogelreuter.  Well,  say,  have  you  come  out  of  a  jar 
pf  preserves  ?  Have  you  forgotten  what  was  up  between 
us  yesterday? 

Georg.  Why,  my  dear  Uncle,  that  was  all  past  in  a 
minute. 

Vogelreuter.     You're  living  fast,  I  must  say. 

Georg.  At  any  rate,  don't  lose  any  sleep  over  that. 
That  bone  is  soon  set.  Then  we'll — {He  starts  and  listens 
toward  the  door  that  leads  outside.) 

Vogelreuter.     What's  the  matter  ? 

[76] 


f 


■> 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Georg.     I  thought  someone  was  coming. 

VoGELREUTER.     Let  them  come. — Well,  then  it's   all 

right ;  then  good  night,  my  son. 

Georg.     Good  night,  my  dear  Uncle. 

VoGELREUTER.  (Shaking  his  head.)  Hm!  (He  goes 
out.) 

Georg.  (He  seats  himself  by  the  table  and  tries  to 
read.  Then  he  listens  and  goes  toward  the  middle  door, 
calling  down  into  the  garden.)  Is  there  anyone  there? 
Did  someone  answer?  (In  a  lower  tone.)  Is  it  you,  Mar- 
ikke? 

Trude's  Voice.      (Complainingly.)      No,  it's  only  me. 

Georg.     Trude !    What  are  you  doing  there ! 

Trude.  (With  her  hair  down  and  in  her  nightgown, 
steps  in  hesitatingly. )  I  was  so  restless ;  I  only  wanted 
to  see  you  a  little  while  longer. 

Georg.  But,  child,  what  would  Papa  say  ?  Go  straight 
to  your  room. 

Trude.     I  can't.    I  feel  too  bad. 

Georg.     Why  ? 

Trude.  George  dear,  I'll  tell  you.  I  don't  think  I'm 
good  enough  for  you. 

Georg.     What  ? — what  ?  What  sort  of  nonsense  is  this  ? 

Trude.  I'm  too  stupid.  I  won't  know  what  to  talk  to 
you  about.     I'm  too  stupid. 

Georg.     Child,  darling,  little  one. 

Trude.  But  a  little  while  ago  in  the  garden,  the  moon 
shone  so  beautifully  and  you  didn't  say  a  single  word  to 
me. 

Georg.     But  Mama  was  there. 

Trude.  And  if — George  dear,  there's  still  time — 
wouldn't  you  rather  marry  someone  else  ? 

[77] 


'^^W?'?^  "#|i"^!jppJWf!yi3llf^"  '»JW '  "*<(«H*«w;»«.  -  ■  -■  ■■     '!■■•— r^. 


^v^. 


•^• 


'    „  ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

'  ■/' 
Georg.     For  heaven's  sake — have  you  suggested  that 

to  anyone  else  ?  i 

Trude.  Yes,  to  Papa.  He  thought  I  was  crazy  and 
told  me  to  go  way,  I  had  the  bride  staggers. 

Georg.  (Smiling.)  Hm,  hm! — And  now  I've  got 
something  to  tell  you,  my  treasure — 

Trude.  (Interrupting.)  But  if  I'm  going  to  make 
you  miserable,  I'd  rather  drown  myse'f. 

Georg.  First : — That  it's  not  the  proper  thing  for  you 
to  be  running  around  here  in  your  nightgown. 

Trude.     Why,  in  three  days  we'll  be  married. 

Georg.     What  a  reason. — You  have  beautiful  hair ! 

Trude.     (Blissfully.)     Do  you  like  it? 

Georg.  And  secondly : — I  will  marry  no  one  one  else. 
You  will  not  drown  yourself.  We  will  be  happy  together. 
At  first  you  will  be  my  companion  in  my  leisure  hours,  and 
then  perhaps,  you  will  grow  to  be  really  my  comrade.  Is 
it  good  so? 

Trude.     Yes. 

Georg.     And  now  go  to  bed. 

Trude.  And  I  will  wrap  myself  all  up  in  my  hair  and 
will  think,  you  have  said  it  is  beautiful ;  and  then  I  will 
fall  asleep — Good  night. 

Georg.  Good  night.  (He  kisses  her  on  the  forehead. 
She  goes  out.  Georg  reseats  himself  with  a  sigh  and 
broods,  his  face  buried  in  his  hands.  Marikke  steps  light- 
ly in.) 

Georg.     Heimchen,  Heimchen,  is  it  you? 

Marikke.     It  is  still  very  early,  isn't  it? 

Georg.     It  must  be  an  hour  yet. — Are  they  all  asleep  ? 

Marikke.     Yes,  the  lights  were  out  everywhere. 

[78] 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Georg.     Well,  come  and  sit  here,  will  you  ? 
Marikke.     I  don't  know — I  guess  I'll  go  back. 
Georg.     Come,  come,  you  can  read  something.     I'm 
reading  too,  you  see. 

Marikke.  Well,  all  right  then.  (She  seats  herself.) 
But  I'd  really  rather  go  to  the  train  alone. 

Georg.  (Tenderly.)  Heimchen.  (She  closes  her 
eyes.)  Are  you  tired?  (She  denies  it.)  For  one  whole 
hour,  I  have  you  alone  to  myself. 

Marikke.     That's  a  great  thing  to  have. 

Georg.     Yes. 

Marikke.     The  St.  John's  fires  are  all  out,  I  suppose  ? 

Georg.  How  can  they  help  it?  Such  a  pile  of  wood 
is  soon  burnt  down. 

Marikke.  And  then  everything  is  the  same  as  ever 
again !  Ah,  how  beautifully  you  spoke  tonight !  I  have 
never  heard  anyone  speak  so  before. 

Georg.     And  you  were  the  only  one  who  understood  it. 

Marikke.  That  is  not  strange.  It  seemed  as  if  I 
spoke  it  myself.    That  is,  I  won't  say — 

Georg.     What  won't  you  say? 

Marikke.     Oh,  you  know  already. 

Georg.     I  know  nothing. 

Marikke.  (After  a  silence.)  George,  I  want  to  tell 
you  something.  It's  what  I  came  down  here  for. — You 
are  to  know  it, — all  alone — I  promised  to  marry  today, 
George. 

Georg.     Heimchen ! 

Marikke.      Well,  yes. 

Georg.     With — ? 

[79] 


lyiin iwyiiwiwiiipi  iiii  iMiii;ijMB|||iiii  ipiiiiliii  i||iMiiiii|iii»ii  I  i|ii  iiiiii  III  iiiiipwiiiuppim 


Bpp^-'"'??^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Marikke.  With  the  assistant  pastor. — With  whom 
else  ?    There  is  no  one  else.    Or  did  you  think  with  Plotz  ? 

Georg.     Why  have  you  done  this  ? 

Marikke.     (Astonished.)     Well? 

Georg.     Why  have  you  done  this  ? 

Marikke.  Why,  one  has  his  life  before  him,  George. 
The  St.  John's  fires  can't  burn  forever,  George. 

Georg.     You  can't  do  that.    That's — that's  simply — 

Marikke.     Don't  talk  so  loud. 

Georg.     You  don't  love  him. 

Marikke.     You  don't  know  whether  I  do  or  not. 

Georg.  Don't  I  ? — Well,  yes,  that  may  be  so.  Pardon 
me,  of  course,  I  don't  know  your  secrets.  Well  then,  I 
congratulate  you. — 

Marikke.     And  I  thank  you. 

Georg.  But  why  did  you  tell  me  first  ?  Why  not  Uncle 
or — I  have  no  particularly  intimate  relations  with  you. — 

Marikke.  No  ?  You  really  have  no  intimate  relations 
with  me  ?     I  thought  you  did  ! 

Georg.  Well,  each  one  of  us  has  his  destiny  now, — 
you  yours,  I  mine.  We  have  made  up  our  minds  that 
there  is  to  be  nothing  further  between  us.  And  now  we 
can  speak  of  the  past.  You  have  read  my  diary.  Inci- 
dentally you  have  perjured  yourself  in  regard  to  it.  You 
think  only  of  the  great  things  at  issue.  With  details  you 
do  not  concern  yourself.  I  wish  that  I  might  be  so,  too. — 
You  know  to  whom  my  verses  were  addressed.  It's  not 
for  us  to  play  the  innocent  any  longer.  Therefore  I  ask 
you  frankly :    Why  were  }ou  so  mean  to  me  at  that  time ? 

Marikke.     Was  I  really  that,  George? 

Georg.     Well,  I  don't  want  to  drag  out  your  register  of 

[80] 


^^^^'^^^Sr^^fr^'^^'^  "^  -  ^'^^•^'^^^'ryi^r%:^f^^^-^^-^        '  *"»■      T^^Jir-  -"^  J  -^^i^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

sins  for  you.  But  it  seemed  as  if  you  had  set  yourself 
to  drive  me  mad.  Do  you  remember  how  I  followed  you 
down  into  the  milk  cellar  one  evening,  and  how  you  kept 
me  shut  up  down  there  all  night? — Do  you  remember  it, 
you  rascal,  you  ? 

Marikke.     (Smiling.)     Remember  it.     Remember  it. 

Georg.     Why  did  you  do  that? 

Marikke.  That  is  very  simple.  You  were  Mr.  von 
Hartwig  and  I  a  Lithuanian  foundling  child — worse  than 
that  even. — When  one  of  your  standing  followed  such  a 
one  as  me  into  the  cellar,  I  knew  for  sure,  or  at  least 
thought  I  knew  what  you  wanted  with  me. 

Georg.  And  so  that  was  it?  And  at  that  same  time 
you  used  to  go  out  under  the  manzanillo-tree  and  want  to 
die? 

(Marikke  nods.) 

Georg.  And  so  that  was  it  ?  And  did  it  never  occur 
to  you  that  it  might  be  otherwise?  Trude  was  still  a 
child  then.  And  afterwards,  because  I  couldn't  get  you 
then,  I  took  Trude.    Did  that  never  occur  to  you  ? 

Marikke.  How  should  I  have  dared  to  think  of  such 
a  thing  ? 

Georg.     And  later,  never — never — never? 

Marikke.  Day  before  yesterday,  when  I  read  your 
notebook,  it  occurred  to  me  for  the  first  time. 

Georg.     And  now  it  is  too  late. 

Marikke.  Now,  of  course,  it  is  too  late. — Oh,  if  I'd 
been  then  as  I  am  today,  there'd  have  been  none  of  that 
restraint. 

Georg.     Heimchen,  do  you  know  what  you  are  saying? 

Marikke.     Ah,  George  dear,  it's  all  the  same.    Each 

.       '  [8i] 


..Mi^PP^ijii ,  1 .  4uiiiywiimiu|!|iipp|pi 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

one  of  us  has  his  destiny.    You  must  rule ;  I  must  serve ; 
and  both  of  us  must  die. 

Georg.  You  must  be  loved — Gloved — loved — with  all 
one's  soul — ^beyond  all  understanding. 

Marikke.  (Motioning  toward  the  right.)  He  loves 
me. 

Georg.     Hm,  he. 

Marikke.  Don't  scold,  George  dear.  You  can't  love 
me.    There  can  never  be  anything  more  between  us. 

Georg.  No.  Never.  No  disaster  can  be  brought  on 
this  house.  Not  by  me.  Nor  by  you.  We  would  stifle 
under  the  shame  of  it. — But  still,  I  can  imagine  to  my- 
self what  might  have  been. — That  is  no  disaster,  is  it? 

Marikke.  How  was  it  you  said  that?  The  wild  birds 
that  we  have  left  fly  away,  because  our  hands  closed  over 
them — ^how  was  it  you  said  that  now  ?  That  was  so  beau- 
tiful— 

Georg.     I  don't  remember  any  more. — 

Marikke.  But  I  am  no  wild  bird.  I'm  tame,  quite 
tame. — 

Georg.     You  tame  ? 

Marikke.  For  you,  George  dear,  quite  tame.  I  eat 
out  of  your  hand. 

Georg.  My  little  Marjell — my  beloved.  (He  strokes 
her  hair.)  No,  no,  I  had  better  not  touch  you.  Trude 
was  down  in  the  garden  a  little  while  ago  without  anyone's 
knowing  it.  What  if  she  should  be  slipping  around  there 
again — for  heaven's  sake. 

Marikke.      What  did  she  want? 

Georg.     What  will  she  want  ? 

Marikke.  The  poor  dear,  dear  thing.  Will  you  love 
her,  too,  George  ? 

[82] 


"^■fT"^^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Georg.  I'll  love  her  as  well  as  I  can.  Only  I  dare  not 
think  of  you  then. 

Marikke.  Nor  shall  you  think  of  me,  George,  dear. 
And  I'll  not  think  either. 

Georg.     Really  ?    Never  ? 

Marikke.  Yes,  sometimes. — All  the  first  days  after 
the  wedding — 

Georg.     Never  at  any  other  time? 

Marikke.     St.  John's  night. 

Georg.     And  not  when  the  fires  are  burning? 

Marikke.  And  when  the  fires  are  out,  then  I'll  cry 
a  little. 

Georg.     Heimchen ! 

Marikke.  You  sit  there,  George,  dear;  I'll  sit  here. 
There  can't  be  anyone  in  the  garden. 

Georg.     Oh,  she  must  be  asleep. 

Marikke.  If  she  were!  But  we  will  be  brave.  It 
doesn't  matter  to  me.  But  I  know  what  you're  like — if 
you  give  yourself  any  license,  it  always  -weighs  on  you 
afterwards,  and  on  me  too. 

Georg.  Why  do  you  say  that,  Heimchen? — What  do 
you  take  me  for? 

Marikke.     Hard. 

Georg.     And  still  you  love  me? 

Marikke.  For  that  very  reason  I  love  you. — You  are 
so  because  you  have  had  to  struggle  with  life.  I  have  had 
to  struggle  with  life  too,  but  I  have  only  lost  confidence 
in  myself  and  in  everything. — ^Ah,  if  you  knew!  Some- 
times I  am  afraid  of  myself.  Sometimes  I  could  kill 
somebody.    I  am  so  lonely. 

Georg.     You  would  have  been  happy  with  me. 

Marikke.     Oh. 

[83] 


i_ii       II    I II iiiiii   I  inipipiiiii n -  ^ '''.'' '''"PiWIiW"''' J'-'.' '  ' 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Georg.  We  would  have  worked  together  and  spun 
plans  half  the  night  through.  I  am  very  ambitious,  you 
must  know. 

Marikke.  And  I, — oh,  I  too !  You  shall  be  the  first 
and  the  greatest,  and  all  shall  bow  down  before  you,  and 
I  will  kneel  down  before  you  and  say:  You  love  so  to 
rule,  rule  now,  I  would  have  said :  rule  now.  (She  kneels 
down  before  him,  clasps  his  knees  and  looks  at  him.) 

Georg.  Stand  up,  for  God's  sake,  stand  up.  There  is 
surely  someone  in  the  garden. 

Marikke.     (Standing  up.)     Let  it  be  who  it  will. 

Georg.     Heimchen ! 

Marikke.  Yes,  you  are  right.  That  was  wrong  in  me 
— but  what  can  you  expect  from  anyone  that  comes  from 
where  I  come  from? 

Georg.  Don't.  Don't  think  about  that.  Only  think 
about  this  house  and  all  the  love  that  you  have  had  here. 

Marikke.  All  is  so  still  in  the  house.  Not  a  sound  in 
the  whole  world.     Still, — like  the  grave. 

Georg.  Be  satisfied.  Then  they  have  buried  us  to- 
gether. 

Marikke.     Oh,  if  they  had. 

Georg.  And  see  how  the  moon  stands  there  over  the 
garden.    And  there  is  your  manzanillo-tree. 

Marikke.     Yes,  do  you  see  it? 

Georg.  There — there!  And  the  white  leaves  on  it. 
Each  one  is  alive,  and  not  a  stir  of  wind. — Come,  shall  we 
go  out? 

Marikke.  (Shuddering.)  Oh  no !  I  think,  beside,  it's 
time — we  must. 

Georg.    Sh. 

Marikke.     What  is  it  ? 

[84] 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Georg.  Something  made  a  noise. — That's  Trude 
again.     (Calling.)     Trude! 

Marikke.     Weren't  you  mistaken? 

Georg.  No,  no.  I  saw  a  shadow  too. — ^Trude ! — You 
wait  here  a  minute !     (He  goes  down  into  the  garden.) 

Marikke.  George,  George  dear, — I'm  so  afraid. — 
George ! 

(  Georg  comes  back  after  a  little  while  excited. ) 

Marikke.     Who  was  it? — George,  who  was  it? 

Georg.     No  one,  no  one — 

Marikke.  Yes, — but  I  see  it  in  your  face — was  it 
Trude? 

Georg.     No. 

Marikke.     Was  it  Papa  then  ? 

Georg.    No,  no. 

Marikke.  George,  you're  as  pale  as  a  ghost.  What 
has  happened  ?    Tell  me. 

Georg.  Nothing  has  happened.  There  was  a  stranger 
walking  about  in  the  garden  and  I  drove  him  out. 

Marikke.     What  sort  of  a  stranger  ? 

Georg.     (Annoyed.)     Oh,  don't  ask  me. 

Marikke.  (Without  e.rpression.)  Ah  so — now  I 
know.  It  was  my  mother.  Yes,  yes.  I  see  it  in  your 
face. 

Georg.     You  have  said  it  yourself. 

Marikke.  What  did  she  want?  But  .why  do  I  ask? 
(Burying  her  face  in  her  hands.)  Oh  God,  oh  God,  oh 
God! 

Georg.     Heimchen ! 

Marikke.  Close  the  shutters,  I  am  afraid. — Tight. 
And  the  bars  there  in  front.    So.    And  there  too.    So,  so. 

[85] 


■  '^><^'»wv>>->~-v<«<.-ipi9aaii|^i^Pjjpp({j|^iij|jjHpi,ii«i^^  .'  ".wi'<^ii!Fw»»j»j»i!||i!a|i*|IS| 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Georg.  (Putting  his  arms  around  her.)  Heimchen 
— ^beloved — 

Marikke.     Hold  me  fast. 

Georg.     Is  it  good  so? 

Marikke.  Yes,  yes,  it  is  good  so.  (She  presses 
against  him.)    I  will  sit  so — quite  still.     (He  kisses  her.) 

Georg.  Only  so  we  get  to  the  train  on  time.  (He 
reaches  for  his  watch.  With  a  start.)  Hark!  (The  far- 
off  whistle  of  a  locomotive  is  heard.) 

Marikke.     (Smiling.)     I  hear.    I  hear. 

Georg.     Was  that  the  train? 

Marikke.     That  was  the  train. 

Georg.     Can  you  hear  it  clear  here  ? 

Marikke.     In  the  night  you  can  hear  it. 

Georg.     My  God,  what  shall  we  do? 

Marikke.     (In  a  low  tone.)     I  will  tell  you.    We  will 

stay  here,  quite  still,  quite  still,  till  the  next  comes.     It 

comes  at  four. 

Georg.  Heimchen — my  beloved,  my  all.  (He  kisses 
her.) 

Marikke.  Ah,  kiss  me  again.  Now  do  you  see  who 
I  am  ?  You  see  there's  nothing  for  me  to  lose.  I  can  do 
what  I  will.    Tonight  is  St.  John's  night. 

Georg.     The  fires  are  burnt  down. 

Marikke.     No,  I  will  have  them :  they  shall  burn !  • 

Georg.  Yes,  they  shall  burn.  A  thousand  times,  yes, 
yes,  yes. 

Marikke.  You  !  Don't  kiss  me  !  I  will  kiss  you.  I  will 
take  everything  on  myself.  My  mother  stole.  I  steal  too. 
— George ! 

CURTAIN. 

[86] 


ACT  IV. 

[The  same  scenery.  The  general  stir  of  morning  is  heard. 
The  center  table  is  covered  with  flowers  and  pres- 
ents. Through  the  glass  doors  Vogelreuter,  Georg^ 
and  Trude  are  seen  on  the  terrace,  in  the  open  door 
Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  All  are  listening  to  an  invisible 
quartette  of  men's  voices  which,  as  the  curtain  rises, 
is  singing  the  last  measures  of  "This  is  the  Day  of  the 
Lord."  In  the  meantime,  Mamsell  comes  in  from  the 
left,  also  listens  and  wipes  the  tears  from  her  eyes. 
When  the  singing  ends,  Vogelreuter  begins  a  con- 
versation, and  goes  down  the  steps  with  Georg  and 
Trude.] 

Mamsell.  Oh,  dear  Mrs.  Vogelreuter,  can't  you  come 
out  for  just  a  minute? 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter."  {Wiping  her  eyes.)  What  is  it, 
Mamsell  ? 

Mamsell.  Na,  have  your  cry  out  first.  It  makes  me 
cry,  too. 

( The  low  clanging  of  a  bell  is  heard. ) 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.     And  now  the  bells  are  beginning. 

Mamsell.  Na,  such  sadness. — It's  more  than  a  body 
can  stand  unless  they're  clean  made  of  stone. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter,  Are  you  sure  there's  wine  enough 
in  the  garden,  and  sandwiches  ? 

[87] 


;* 


wmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Mamsell.  Lor'  yes,  Heimchen  and  I,  we  spread  such 
a  mountain  of  it. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  And  what  do  you  want  now, 
Mamsell  ? 

Mamsell.  Mercy  me,  only  about  the  things  in  the 
kitchen.  Heimchen  thinks  we'd  better  roast  the  venison 
a  bit  past  the  turn  now,  and  then  we  can  have  it  warm  for 
dinner  after  a  while :  and  I  think :  No ;  it  doesn't  taste  so 
good  so.    And  then  Heimchen  thinks — 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Well,  never  mind,  I'll  come  out 
in  a  minute  and  see. 

Mamsell.  And  then  there's  another  thing ;  dear  good 
Mrs.  Vogelreuter,  do  send  the  child,  Heimchen  I  mean, 
out  to  rest  up  a  bit.  She's  been  on  her  legs  since  two 
o'clock  and  last  night  she  came  from  Konigsberg.  It's 
more  than  a  horse  can  stand. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Well,  Mamsell,  the  wedding's  to- 
day.    We  must  all  keep  about  today. 

Mamsell.  Oh  yes,  you  and  me,  we  two  old  women, 
we  don't  amount  to  much  anyway,  but  we  must  be  a  bit 
careful  of  the  young  folk.  And  she  does  keep  gaping 
so. 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.  Well,  I'll  go  out  with  you  and 
see. 

Mamsell.  No,  and  then  beside,  all  this  sadness !  (She 
wipes  her  eyes.)     Na,  I  say. 

{Both  go  out  at  the  left.  Vogelreuter,  Georg,  and 
Trude.) 

Vogelreuter.  Well,  at  last  we're  done  with  the 
morning's  business.  First  the  soldiers'  club,  then  the  ath- 
letes' club,  then  the  old  maids'  club  and  now  the  singers' 

[88] 


-"j^cs^S-s-'-'-s^*^:^;'"*"'^^*^ '?      ■='  ^^^'~'  "  ^i  ^"^^ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

club.  But  there's  one  good  thing  at  least — that  the  ath- 
letes' club  and  the  old  maids'  club  didn't  fix  up  a  mixed 
performance  for  us,  or  by  next  year  we'd  have  had  a 
babies'  club  on  our  hands  too. 

Trude.     Why,  Papa! 

VoGELREUTER.  Come,  come,  don't  carry  on  so.  You- 
're as  good  as  a  wife  now.  I'll  tell  you  what,  little  Frou- 
sie,  get  me  a  drink  of  whiskey;  my  stomach's  like  a  jelly- 
bag  with  that  everlasting  portwine. 

Trude.     Yes,  Papa.    (She  hurries  to  the  liquor  closet.) 

VoGELREUTER.  {To  Georg.)  Well,  and  what's  the 
matter  with  you  now  ?  Are  you  always  swimming  in  this 
sort  of  a  soft  tear  gravy — heh  ? 

Georg.     Yes ! 

VoGELREUTER.  {Imitating  him.)  Yes. — Well,  it's 
more  than  I  can  do  to  see  through  you. — There's  still — 
{as  Trude  brings  him  the  glass)  Will  you  have  a  drink, 
too? 

Georg.     Thank  you,  no. 

VoGELREUTER.  Then  don't.  Your  health,  Frousie. 
{He  catches  her  <by  one  of  her  curls.) 

Trude.     Your  health.  Papa. 

VoGELREUTER.  Well,  I  suppose  we've  seen  about  the 
last  of  these  curls  now.  Or  are  you  going  to  be  frizzled 
up  like  a  poodle  at  the  register's  office  ? 

Trude.  No,  of  course  not.  Heimchen's  going  to  fix 
it  another  way  for  me.  We've  been  experimenting  to  see 
how  it  looked. 

VoGELREUTER.  {Standing  up.)  We  start  at  half  past 
nine — is  it  understood? 

Georg.     Yes. 

[89] 


^nmsnippiipiimiPHiiPiiii 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

VoGELREUTER.  And  your  friend  from  Konigsberg, 
will  we  find  him  at  the  station  ? 

Georg.     Yes.  He  gets  in  on  the  quarter  past  nine  train. 

VoGELREUTER.  All  right.  And  we  must  see  sure  to 
getting  the  second  witness. — Do  you  know  what  I'd  like  ? 
(Tapping  Georg  on  the  breast.)  I'd  like  a  peep  in 
there. 

Trude.  Do  let  him  alone,  Papa.  He's  my  George 
now.    If  I'm  satisfied  with  him — 

VoGELREUTER.  Yes,  yes,  you're  right.  The  man  that 
gets  my  daughter  can  afford  to  laugh.  But  what's  more, 
he's  got  to  laugh :  do  you  understand  ?  (He  goes  out  by 
the  door  to  the  right.) 

Trude.  You  don't  have  to  laugh  unless  you  want  to, 
George  dear.  Not  for  me.  Hark!  how  the  bells  are 
ringing — low  just  like  singing.    That's  for  us. 

Georg.     Why  for  us  ? 

Trude.  Alterchen  had  them  rung  especially  for  us, 
the  assistant  pastor  said.  Half  an  hour  in  the  morning, 
and  while  we're  on  the  way  to  the  church  in  the  afternoon, 
and  at  the  exchanging  of  the  rings. 

Georg.     Hm,  hm. 

Trude.  Do  you  know,  George  dear.  Mama  said  what- 
ever a  bride  dreams  the  night  before  her  wedding,  some- 
thing like  that  is  sure  to  come  true.  Do  you  believe  that 
too? 

Georg.     (Absorbed.     Absent-mindedly.)     Yes. 

Trude.  I  dreamed  about  a  yellow  field  of  rape,  where 
a  poor  little  hare  had  gotten  caught  and  a  hawk  hung 
right  above  it  in  the  air  and  was  after  it.  And  then  it 
seemed  as  if  I  was  the  hare  myself,  and  I  kept  crying  out : 

[90] 


■:!^^^^W^--   -■ 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

George,  George !  And  then  the  hawk  swooped  down  on 
me,  just  think!  * 

Georg.     And  then? 

Trude.  And  then  I  woke  up.  And  the  cold  sweat 
was  standing  out  all  over  my  forehead.  It's  not  true.  You 
wouldn't  let  it  be  so.  No  one  can  hurt  me,  can  they  ?  I'm 
only  a  poor  little  scared  hare,  isn't  that  it? 

Georg.     (Staring  in  front  of  him.)    My  God! 

Trude.     George  dear,  I  want  to  ask  you  something. 

Georg.     Well  ? 

Trude.     Don't  you  love  someone  else? 

_Georg.  (Starting.)  What  do  you  mean  by  asking 
that  again  ? 

Trude.  When  a  bride,  at  least,  can't  laugh  on  her 
wedding  day,  then  she  always  loves  someone  else. 

Georg.     That's  all  nonsense,  little  one. 

Trude.  No,  I  read  it  somewhere. — But,  George,  lis- 
ten— suppose  I  am  so  brave  that  I  feel  as  if  I  could  do 
anything  in  the  whole  world.  I  love  you  so.  I'll  love  you 
so  much,  you'll  soon  forget  her,  you'll  see. 

Georg.     But  child — what — ? 

Trude.  No,  no.  I'm  not  at  all  angry  with  you,  you 
see.  Why  should  I  be?  Really  I'm  not.  Nor  at  her 
either ! — George  dear,  does  she  love  you  too  ? 

Georg.    Who  ? 

Trude.  You  know — ^but  don't  worry,  George  dear, — 
She'll  forget  it,  too.  Robert,  the  boy  Papa  took  care  of 
before,  was  going  to  put  a  bullet  through  his  head  be- 
cause he  couldn't  have  me.  And  now  he's  forgotten  all 
about  me.  And  I'll  tell  you ;  today  when  we're  standing 
before  the  altar — when  they  say  "Our  Father  who  art  in 

[91] 


''^i- '  4.W#HI!iipJi;iiW|W.#'WMip)^^  ••  "  ■ '    '■i-i™._i,|iH,uj #iiiiipi|l«pijppV!HqvniipipHiniipi 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

heaven,"  I'll  touch  you  with  my  hand  and  then  we'll  pray 
to  God  that  she  may  overcome  it. — There  mustn't  be  any- 
one unhappy  and — George,  are  you  crying? 

Georg.     I? — Of  course  not, — Why  should  I? 

Trude.  There  are  two  tears — trickling  down  there — 
there — ^there — there.     (She  zvipes  his  face.) 

Georg.  Say — darling — what  if  we  shouldn't  be  mar- 
ried after  all  ? 

Trude.     How  could  that  happen? 

Georg.     Well — if  I  should  die — or  something — 

Trude.  (Throwing  her  arms  about  him.)  Don't  talk 
so — don't — don't ! 

(Marikke  appears  at  the  left  and  remains  standing 
motionless  in  the  door  way  and  watches  the  embrace.) 

Georg.     (Becoming  aware  of  her.)     Let  loose. 

Trude.     Oh,  it's  only  Heimchen. 

Marikke.  (Slowly.)  You  think  a  great  deal  of  each 
other,  I  suppose  ? 

Trude.  We  always  think  a  great  deal  of  each  other. 
Or  won't  that  do  ?    Perhaps  you  don't  allow  us  that  ? 

Marikke.     Oh,  it's  not  for  me  to  say. 

Trude.  (In  mock  annoyance.)  How  do  you  happen 
to  be  up  here — you  ?  Haven't  you  got  anything  to  do  in 
the  kitchen? 

Marikke.     Mama  sent  me  up. 

Trude.  Oh,  Heimchen,  love,  then  you  can  do  up  my 
hair  to  go  to  the  register's  office.    Will  you? 

Marikke.     Yes,  I  can  do  that. 

Trude.     Have  you  the  hair  pins? 

Marikke.  (Shaking  her  head.)  I'll  go  and  get  some 
(She  staggers.) 

[92] 


J-        j^  n  ■•^         fi>^    .^     ■ 


'  CV~  V  JS"V  J^*^ 


-J-T^^r   -^- 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Trude.     (Petting  her.)     You  just  can't  do  it;  you're 
too  tired;  you  can't. 

Marikke.     Oh,  I'm  not  tired. 

Trude.     Well,  all  right  then.    (She  hurries  out.) 

Marikke.  (Anxiously.)     Trude! 

Georg.     I  must  speak  to  you. 

Marikke.     Well,  speak,  I'm  here. 

Georg.  You  say  that  as  if  you  hated  me.  Is  that  to  be 
the  end  between  us  ? 

Marikke.    That  or  something  else ;  it's  all  the  same. 

Georg.     What  sort  of  something  else  ? 

Marikke.  Oh  God,  George,  you  have  Trude.  You 
were  so  tender  to  her  just  now ;  what  do  you  want  with 
me? 

Georg.     I  must  speak  to  you. 

Marikke.     But  you  see  there's  no  chance. 

Trude.  (Coming  in  again.)  Here  are  the  hair  pins. 
(She  gives  them  to  Marikke.)  And  I  brought  Mama's 
powder  mantle  too.  And  the  comb — So,  now  you  must 
go  out,  George.    You  can  see  afterwards  if  it  looks  nice. 

Georg.  ( With  a  glance  at  Marikke.)  I  can  stay  here, 
too. 

Trude.  No,  no.  Or  you'd  make  fun  and  then  Heim- 
chen  would  get  embarrassed.  And  besides,  it  makes  me 
embarrassed,  too.  Be  nice,  George,  dear,  go  out  into 
the  garden.    Won't  you? 

Georg.     Yes,  all  right.     (He  goes  out.) 

Marikke.  Now  bend  over,  please.  (She  holds  the 
powder  mantle  back  of  her.) 

Trude.     Oh,  I'll  just  throw  it  around  me. 

Marikke.  Just  as  you  like — Do  you  want  the  knot 
high  or  low  ? 

[93] 


so«™f»T!  Ji  SjfSlpiSwwJJ '  ««e«^wtK*»>v  '.fBid.iiliwuu'  "i  ■'•'»1-«JWW)IJ!PJ»..,«.  jmaiiipjipipjpiij. 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Trude.  But,  Heimchen!  You  know  we  decided  to 
have  it  hi_gh.    Have  you  forgotten  all  about  that  ? 

Marikke.     Pardon  me!    Dear,  yes,  pardon  me. 

Trude.     Well,  then  give  me  a  kiss. 

(Marikke  takes  her  head  in  both  hands  with  a  sudden 
movement  and  stares  at  her.) 

Trude.     (Anxiously.)     You  look  at  me  so — strangely. 

Marikke.  (Throwing  her  arms  about  her  passion- 
ately.)    You — ^you — you. 

Trude.     Ow  !    You  hurt  me. 

Marikke.     (Smiling.)     You  don't  me,  I  suppose? 

Trude.     I?    How. 

Marikke.  (Beginning  to  comb.)  I  should  think  you 
could  guess.  You're  getting  married  and  I'm  not.  I'm 
jealous,  of  course. 

Trude.  (Reaching  behind  and  stroking  her.)  Well, 
just  wait,  my  love.  (She  sings.)  "Next  year,  next  year, 
when  the  nightingale  sings." 

Marikke.  Well,  what  then,  when  the  nightingale 
sings  ? 

Trude.  (Singing  on.)  Then  you  will  the  pastor's 
wife  be. 

(Marikke  with  one  braid  in  her  hand,  breaks  out  into 
shrill  laughter,  bending  over  backwards.) 

Trude.  Ow  !  You  pull !  But  you  know, — I'm  so  sen- 
sitive there  on  the  left  side. 

Marikke.  Well,  never  mind.  When  a  person's  as 
happy  as  you  are,  they  can  stand  a  little  hurt. — There, 
we'll  braid  that  in  with  the  rest.  For  you  are  happy, 
aren't  you?    Very? 

Trude.  Oh,  I  could  be — I  ought  to  be.  But  he  is  so 
sad. 

[94] 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Marikke.     George? 

(Trude  nods.) 

Marikke.     Why  is  he  ?  . 

Trude.     Oh. 

Marikke.  (Listening.)  Perhaps  you  were  right. 
Perhaps  he  does  love  someone  else.         f, 

Trude.  (With  a  little  start.)  Oh,  why  do  you  say 
that? 

Marikke.  Because — No,  no,  no!  How  could  he? 
That  was  mean  in  me — wasn't  it  ?  He  couldn't  have  the 
heart  to  do  that — not  when  he  looked  at  you. 

Trude.  Still,  still,  still !  I  asked  him  about  it — right 
out  and  out. 

Marikke.    (Slowly. )  And  what  did  he  say  ? 

Trude.     Nothing.    But  afterwards  he  cried. 

Marikke.  He  cried — George !  Did  you  ever  see  him 
cry  before? 

Trude.     No — never. 

Marikke.     (To  herself.)     He  cried! 

Trude.  And  afterwards  he  said :  What  if  we  shouldn't 
be  married  after  all. 

Marikke.     Who  not  be  married — ^you  and  he? 

Trude.     Yes.    And  what  if  he  should  die. 

Marikke.  If  he  should — so  he  said  that. — (With 
feigned  buoyancy.)     Oh,  he  was  only  joking  about  that. 

Trude.  Of  course.  About  that  he  was  only  joking. 
But  about  the  other !  Of  course  I  pretended  as  if  I  did- 
n't think  there  was  anything  to  it:  and  in  a  minute  it 
really  seemed  so.  But  when  I  think  about  it  now.  Oh 
dear,  oh  dear,  oh  dear !  If  that  were  so !  If  I  could  only 
know  that. 

[95] 


?»lS^^tf»^S»wir«'»=r»!7^^;;'^5w«7nr™'^|!^tw!^(W 


''f«W|f«™l?P*|''«*(B^"l»Wf*P»J«pi*' 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Marikke.     Naturally  he  wouldn't  tell  you. 

Trude.     Do  you  mean  he'd  tell  someone  else? 

Marikke.     Well,  sooner  than  he  would  you  ? 

Trude.     Yes. 

Marikke.     Shall  I  ask  him  ? 

Trude.     Oh,  if  you  would,  Heimchen,  if  you  would — 

Marikke.  There,  Now  we're  done.  Take  the  comb 
quick.    And  here  are  the  hair  pins.    And  you  go  out. 

Trude.     Do  you  really  think  he'll  tell  you? 

Marikke.     Yes.     You  can  be  sure,  he'll  tell  me. 

Trude.     Oh,  Heimchen,  how  can  I  thank  you,  how — 

Marikke.  Run  along.  Run  along.  (She  pushes  her 
out  at  the  door.) 

Marikke.  (Alone,  stretching  herself.)  Oh,  ho,  hum. 
(Calling.)     George!     (A  knock  is  heard.)     Come  in! 

Plotz.  (Coming  in  at  the  right.)  Oh,  Miss  Heimchen, 
Mr.  Vogelreiter's  not  here? 

Marikke.     No,  Mr.  Plotz. 

Plotz.  The  assistant  pastor  wanted  to  speak  to  him. 
Here  he  is  himself. 

Haffke.     Good  morning.  Miss  Heimchen. 

Marikke.  Good  morning.  (She  e.r tends  her  hand  to 
him  hesitatingly. ) 

Haffke.     I'll  wait  here,  Mr.  Plotz. 

Plotz.  That's  all  right.  And,  please.  Miss  Heimchen,. 
will  you  give  me  the  key  to  the  cellar  door.  That  Ba- 
varian beer  must  come  up  in  a  hurry.  I  want  to  lay  it  on 
the  ice. 

Marikke.  (Reaching  him  the  key  from  the  keyboard.^ 
Here  it  is. 

Plotz.     Thank  you.     (He  goes  out.) 

[96] 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Haffke.     Well,  not  a  word  to  say? 

Marikke.     What  shall  I  say.  Your  Reverence? 

Haffke.  Doesn't  the  day  make  you  a  little  happier 
than  usual? 

Marikke.     No. 

Haffke.     Nor  the  fact  that  we're  to  be  engaged  either  ? 

Marikke.  We're  not  going  to  be  engaged,  Your  Rev- 
erence. 

Haffke.     (Starting.)    What! 

Marikke.     I  am  not  going  to  stay  here  at  all. 

Haffke.     Really? 

Marikke.     I  leave  this  house  today. 

Haffke.  Permit  me  to  ask,  have  I  forced  myself  up- 
on you  or  not? 

Marikke.     No,  you  have  not  forced  yourself. 

Haffke.     Do  you  think  I  meant  well  by  you  or  not  ? 

Marikke.  Well,  Your  Reverence.  I  thank  you  very 
much — but — 

Haffke.  Then  /  am  not  to  blame  that  you  are  turning 
your  back  on  this  house? 

MarikkE.     Certainly  not. 

Haffke.     Does  anyone  know  of  this  ?  '    ' 

Marikke.     No  one. 

Haffke.  Is  that  so? — is  that  so? — Heimchen,  I  am 
still  a  very  young  man.  If  I  should  say  any  such  word 
as  life's  happiness,  very  likely  it  would  sound  rather  fun- 
ny. So  I  will  not  speak  of  myself  at  all.  I'll  just  have 
to  wait  and  see  how  I  come  through  it.  And  when  I  say 
io  you  now :  Heimchen,  have  you  made  it  clear  to  your- 
self how  you  are  indebted  to  this  house,  then  I  say  it  not 
for  my  own  sake  nor  for  the  sake  of  this  house ;  I  say  it 

[97] 


^ 


■"^-V 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

for  your  sake  alone. — Of  course,  I  am  only  human  and 
my  heart — impels  me — a  little  too — ^but  aside  from  that, 
Heimchen, — if  you  bring  any  discord  into  this  house,  the 
discord  will  fall  on  you,  not  on  this  house,  on  you. 
Marikke.     That  may  be. 

Haffke.     Pardon  me.    I  will  ask  no  questions ;  I  will 
make  no  effort  to  find  out  anything.    That  is  always  the 
best  way.     And  if  I  did  not  love  you  as  I  do  myself,  I 
would  not  say  another  word  to  you.    But  now  I  say  just 
one  thing  more,  one  that  otherwise — in  God's  name — I 
would  have  said  only  to  myself.    The  most  beautiful,  the 
highest  thing  that  man  has,  is  his  melody.    A  certain  mel- 
ody that  always  soimds  in  him,  that  his  soul  always  sings, 
in  waking  or  dreaming,  loud  or  low,  consciously  or  un- 
consciously.   The  others  say ;  "His  way  is  so  and  so ;  his 
character  is  so  and  so."    He  only  smiles  at  that,  for  his 
melody  he  alone  knows.     See,  today  you  have  shattered 
my  life's  happiness,  but  my  life's  melody,  that  you  can 
not  take  from  me,  that  is  clear  and  will  always  be  clear. 
But  Heimchen,  dear  Heimchen,  if  you  fill  this  house  with 
sorrow,  this  house  to  which  you  owe  everything  in  the 
world,  if  you  sin  against  your  father  and  your  mother — 
Marikke.     My  father  and  my  mother?     What  does 
Your  Reverence  know  of  them?    Who  my  father  is,  I 
don't  know  myself.    But  my  mother,  oh  yes,  I  know  her. 
It's  from  her  I  get  the  melody  in  my  life.    And  there're 
words  to  it  too,  pretty  ones.    Do  you  know  how  they  go  ? 
Steal,  must  you.     Your  happiness,  that  you  must  steal, 
love  and  all,  that  you  must  steal.     But  it  will  always  be 
the  other  one  who  gets  everything.    Oh  yes,  my  mother, 
you  see,  she  steals.    She  climbed  over  the  fence  out  there 

[98] 


;-;i.-.viiik. 


^-y^^^-:' 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

on  St.  John's  night.  And  as  my  mother  does,  so  I  after 
her.  And  now  don't  say  another  word.  I  need  my  five 
senses.  My  whole  fate  is  at  stake  today.  So.  Now  yoij 
know. 

Haffke.  Yes,  now  I  know.  Good-bye,  Heimchen.  I 
perhaps  will  overcome  this  day;  you  will  not.  (He  goes 
out. ) 

Trude.  (At  the  door  at  the  left.)  Was  that  George 
that  went  out  just  now  ? 

Marikke.     Were  you  standing  by  the  door? 

Trude.     Why,  shame  on  you ! 

Marikke.  Go.  Go  dress  yourself.  I'll  call  George 
now.    Go  on. 

Trude.  And  then  will  you  come  right  away  and  tell 
me?    Will  you? 

Marikke.    Yes. 

(Trude  goes  out.) 

Marikke.  (Calling  into  the  garden  in  a  lower  tone 
than  before.)      George — George! 

Georg.     (Appearing  from  the  terrace.)  Are  you  alone? 

(Marikke  nods.) 

Georg.     Are  you?    And  you  have  arranged  it  so? 

Marikke.  You  wanted  to  speak  to  me  and  so  I  have 
arranged  it. 

Georg.  And  if  I  say  to  you  now,  Heimchen,  For  one 
hour  yet  I  am  free;  I  still  have  full  power  to  choose;  I 
can  still  shape  my  destiny,  what  will  you  answer  me? 

Marikke.  What  can  I  answer  you?  I  don't  know 
what  you  want. 

Georg.  If  it  comes  to  zvanting,  I  want  you.  Don't  you 
know  it?    You  belong  to  me  forever.    I  want  you. 

[991    ■ 


) 


■PMH 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Marikke.  (In  a  low  happy  tone.)  I  had  thought 
when  the  fires  were  out,  you  would  forget  me,  and  now 
do  you  really  want  me  ? 

Georg.  (In  a  low  tone.)  Are  you  not  the  same  as  my 
wife?    Don't  you  know  that  before  God  you  are  my  wife? 

Marikke.  Yes,  and  before  men,  Trude  will  be  your 
wife. 

Georg.     Do  you  think  so  ? 

Marikkk.  (Doubtfully.)  Don't!  You  know  you  love 
her — Trude. 

Georg.  Yes,  I  do  love  her.  How  could  I  help  but  love 
her?    Don't  you  love  her? 

Marikke.  I  don't  know.  Since  I  saw  how  tender 
you  were  to  her  a  little  while  ago — and  it  was  only  be- 
cause you  loved  her  so  much  that  you  were  crying  too. 
Yes,  I  see  it  now.  But  what  I  endure,  how  I — how  I — Oh ! 
— Well,  thank  God,  that  doesn't  matter  to  anyone. 

Georg.  Hm !  That  doesn't  matter  to  me  ?  You  could 
do  something  better  than  to  torture  me  like  this.  I  might 
have  been  a  decent  sort  of  a  man  all  my  life.  If  I  can't 
any  more,  there're  still  bullets  enough. 

Marikke.     And  so  you  really  want  to  die  ? 

Georg.     I  don't  want  to.    I've  got  to. 

Marikke.     Oh  George,  then  take  me  with  you. 

(Georg  shakes  his  head.) 

Marikke.  Ah!  that's  what  I  was  always  imagining 
to  myself  then — years  ago — I  wanted  to  kill  you  then — 
and  when  you  were  dying,  to  kiss  you  like  mad  and  then 
to  kill  myself. — 

Georg.  That's  nonsense,  child.  Don't  talk  of  that. 
Don't.     For  don't  you  see  that  we  keep  turning  round 

[IOC] 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

in  a  sort  of  a  circle — forever  'round  and  'round,  and  final- 
ly we  see  no  way  out  of  it  except  death  ? 
.    Marikke.     Oh,  I  would  like  to  die — ^but  I'd  much 
rather  live  with — 

Georg.  Listen  to  me,  Marjell.  We  both  need  more 
courage  to  live  than  to  die. 

Marikke.     Why  ? 

Georg.  Can  you  ask?  In  this  house?  That  has 
raised  us — ^you  and  me.  That  has  given  us  food  and 
knowledge  and  love.  To  wreck  that  and  still  be  happy! 
Would  you  have  the  courage  for  that  sort  of  a  thing  ? 

Marikke.  Our  Alterchen  has  always  said,  "We  must 
have  courage  for  all  things,  save  only  for  unrighteous- 
ness."   I'd  have  had  courage  for  unrighteousness  too. 

Georg.     Shall  I  put  you  to  the  test? 

Marikke.  If  you  give  me  your  hand  now  and  say, 
"Come,  let  us  go  off  through  the  garden  door,  just  as 
we  are,  together,  this  minute,"  you'll  soon  see  how  I'll 

go- 

Georg.     What!    Without  their  knowing  it?    Without 

anyone —  ?    Is  that  what  you  mean  ? 

Marikke.     Don't  you  ? 

Georg.     {With  a  hard  laugh.)      No. 

Marikke.     Well,  what  else  then? 

Georg.  Face  to  face.  He  stands  there — I  stand  here. 
If  he  releases  me  from  my  promise,  good.  (Setting  his 
teeth.)     If  he  doesn't,  good  too. 

Marikke.  Oh  God,  oh  God!  You  know  what  he  is 
when  he's  mad.    He'll  kill  us.    I  tell  you,  he'll  kill  us. 

Georg.     It  all  comes  to  the  same  thing  in  the  end. 

Marikke.     George,  think. 

[loi] 


^^^JUsfj 


wmmmmm^ummmgKmm 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

Georg.  I  have  thought  for  two  nights.  The  one  is 
madness,  the  other  is  madness.  Well,  it's  all  the  same. 
(Painfully.)    Only  I'm  sorry  for  the  child. 

Marikke.  And  that's  it.  Well,  if  you're  sorry  for 
Trude. 

Georg.     Then  you  are  willing? 

(Marikke  nods.) 

Georg.  It's  a  matter  of  life  and  death.  You  will  keep 
up  courage  and  stand  by  me? 

Marikke.  (Confounded.)  When  you  tell  him,  have 
I  got  to — ? 

Georg.  What!  You  are  willing  to  share  your  whole 
life  with  me — all  the  self-reproach — all  the — and  now,  at 
this  time,  which  comes  a  long  way  from  being  the  worst 
hour  we'll  ever  go  through,  you're  going  to  leave  me  in 
the  lurch? 

Marikke.  Not  that.  No,  not  that.  But  all  of  us  here 
at  home  have  always  been  so  afraid  of  him,  and  now  have 
I  got  to — ? 

Georg.     Well,  if  you  can't  do  that  much — 

Marikke.     If  I  have  to !    Yes,  yes,  I  will,  yes. 

Georg.  Then  watch  out. — As  soon  as  he  comes  back — 
(Vogelreuter's  voice  is  heard  at  the  right.  Breathing 
hard.)     Here  he  comes. 

(Vogelreuter  comes  in.) 

Vogelreuter.  There's  a  clean  Bible  wonder  for  you ! 
Just  listen  here,  children — Isn't  Trude  here?  Where's 
Trude,  I  say? — 

Marikke.     (Trembling.)  I  think  she's  dressing.  Papa. 

Vogelreuter.  Well,  I  guess  it  will  interest  you,  too. 
I  just  met  our  young  Haffke  as  he  was  coming  out  of  the 

[102] 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

house,  and  what  did  he  do  but  tell  me  that,  all  of  a  sudden, 
Alterchen's  up  hobbling  about  the  room  and  declares  he'll 
perform  the  ceremony  himself. — ^Well? — Doesn't  that 
make  any  impression  on  you  ?    Aren't  you  glad  ? 

Georg.     Hm ! 

VoGELREUTER.  Oh  yes,  you  of  coutse.  You're  a 
pagan. — But  our  young  Haffke  rnust  have  been  priding 
himself  on  his  speech ;  he  was  as  yellow  in  the  face  as  a 
cheese.    All  put  out.     Of  course,  it  can't  be  helped. 

Georg.  Pardon  me,  Uncle,  since  we  have  no  tVne  to 
lose,  I  must  beg  for  an  interview  with  you. 

Vogelreuter.  Another  already.  Won't  any  time  be- 
fore noon  do  ? 

Georg.  No.  It  must  be  before  we  go  to  the  register's 
office,  if  I  may  ask  it. 

Vogelreuter.  (With  a  start.)  Heh? — (Recollect- 
ing himself  with  a  laugh. )  You  want  to  screw  the  dow- 
ry up  another  notch,  heh? — (To  Marikke.)  Well,  you 
be  ready  to — 

(Plotz  enters.) 

Vogelreuter.     What  do  you  want  ? 

(  Plotz  makes  signs  to  him. ) 

Vogelreuter.  Look  at  him  stand  there,  blinking  his 
eyes  like  a  sick  rooster.    Talk,  can't  you,  you  idiot. 

Plotz.  No,  I  can't.  I've  got  something  to  tell  you  in 
private. 

Vogelreuter.  Well,  if  you've  got  something  to  tell 
me  in  private,  then  come  in  here,  you  old  muttdnhead. 

Plotz.     I've  just  now  got  the  old  woman. 

Vogelreuter.  The — (With  a  side  glance  at  Marikke.) 

(Plotz  nods.) 

[103] 


: cs,^^-.;-  ■  '  ■         -.•  ■ -■  '■      ■':•■    {■■--t.-i'.-^:'.  ■;■;"■■   "v.*: --'■>^/:1c■>i'^^-.:^■:*■■f.}:^■^^ 


-■„-:iv->i'iT  H  .^'  -T'-.J^'S* 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

VoGELREUTER.  You,  Heimcheti,  you  can  go  out  and 
have  a  little  conversation  with  George.  It's  a  very  in- 
teresting young  man,  that.  (In  a  low  tone  to  Plotz.) 
Where? 

Plotz.  Down  cellar.  When  I  went  to  put  the  beer  on 
ice,  there  she  stood  in  a  corner,  loaded  full. 

VoGELREUTER.     Is  she  there  yet? 

Plotz.     Sure. — She  fights  like  the  devil. 

VoGELREUTER.  If  wc  Can  get  her  fast  now,  we'll  be 
clear  of  her  for  a  few  years. — If  we  can  only  get  her  up 
stairs  without  anyone  seeing  her. 

Plotz.     That's  easy  enough.    We'll  stop  her  mouth  up. 

VoGELREUTER.  Then  it'll  take  about  a  minute  to  swear 
out  a  warrant  and  there  the  police  have  her.  Then  we're 
clear  of  her. — Children,  I've  got  to  go  out  for  a  minute — 
be  right  back. 

Georg.     Don't  forget,  Uncle. 

VoGELREUTER.  I  told  you  oncc,  I'd  be  right  back.  Come 
on,  Plotz.     {They  go  out.) 

Georg.     What  makes  you  tremble  so  ? 

Marikke.     I'm  not  trembling. 

Georg.  Heimchen,  I'm  with  you.  Nothing  can  hap- 
pen to  you. 

Marikke.     Hm !    For  that  reason,  I  suppose. 

Georg.     Of  course,  why  not? 

Marikke.  It  all  comes  upon  me  so  now.  {Drawing 
herself  up.)     Isn't  he  coming  back? 

{Scraping  and  stamping  are  heard  at  the  right  and  the 
half  smothered  cries  of  a  woman's  voice.) 

Georg.     What  does  that  mean  ? 

Marikke.     For  God's  sake,  listen ! 

[104] 


-. ■:  --wv^fi^^^'- 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

The  Voice  of  the  Weszkalnene.  (Calling  for  help.) 
Little  daughter,  my  little  daughter, — Missie — Marikke ! 

Marikke.  Hark ! — Hark ! — My  mother — They're  tak- 
ing my  mother  away. — Be  still — don't  open  the  door! 
Quite  still.  (The  half  smothered  cries  are  renewed  out- 
side. ) 

Georg.     Don't  you  want  to  go  out  ?    If  you — 

Marikke.     How  can  I? — I — I'm — afraid, 
i  Georg.     Shan't  I? 

Marikke.  Stay  here — stay  here.  Quite  still — quite 
still — there — now  they're  gone.  Thank  God!  (Break- 
ing out  into  a  scream.)  Do  you  hear?  Hark! — (The  low 
far-off  screaming  is  heard  again. )  Let  her  scream  away ; 
I  can't  help  her — I'm  as  much  of  a  thief  as  she  is — I've 
broken  into  this  house  as  much  as  she  has,  but  what  I've 
stolen  from  them — 

Georg.  Heimchen.  Beloved,  come  to  yourself.  Think 
what  is  before  us. 

Marikke.  Yes — ^yes — ^yes.  I'm  all  right  now.  Much 
better  than  before.  Quite  myself.  What  is  before  us 
then  ?  No.  No.  I  will  not. — I  cannot. — And  I  will  not— 
I  will  not. 

Georg.     Do  you  mean  that  you — 

Vogelreuter.  (Appearing  at  the  door.)  Did  you  hear 
anything  here,  children?  A  racket  or  something  of  the 
kind? 

Georg.  Yes,  we  heard  screaming.  What  was  the  mat- 
ter? 

Vogelreuter.  Oh  nothing.  Don't  bother  yourselves 
about  that.    An  old  beggar  woman — I've  just  got  to  make 

[105] 


my 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

out  a  little  order,  that's  all.  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute,  back 
in  a  minute.    (He  goes  out.) 

Georg.     Heimchen ! 

Marikke.  Be  still.  Don't  say  a  word.  She  (motion- 
ing outside  )  must  go  her  way.    And  I  must  go  my  way. 

Georg.     What  do  you  mean  by  that  ? 

Marikke.  You  said  yourself,  it  is  madness.  Yes,  it  is 
madness.    All  that  we  do  or  wish  for — everything. 

Georg.     Heimchen ! 

Marikke.  Do  you  suppose  then  we'd  be  happy  to- 
gether? I  know  you — I  know  how  it  will  be — you  will 
never  forgive  yourself  and  you  will  never  forgive  me,  and 
in  the  end  there  will  be  nothing  left  for  me  but  to  die. 
That's  all  that  will  make  a  man  of  you  again.  Yes,  that 
will  be  the  end  of  it  all. 

Georg.  I  see  how  it  will  end. — Heimchen,  I  belong  to 
you,  all  that  I  am,  all  that  I  have,  the  good  and  the  bad, 
all  of  me — you  know  that. 

Marikk£.     Thank  God,  yes. 

Georg.  If  there  were  only  a  possibility,  the  merest 
shadow  of  a  possibility  of  our  getting  out  of  this — circle, 
out  of  this — then  we  would  be  free,  then  we  might — ^but 
now,  no  matter  how  we  try,  we  can  never  get  clear  of  our 
duty  toward  this  house — ^never  in  our  lives — ^never. 

Marikke.  Well  then  ? — All  that  there  was  in  the  world 
for  either  of  us,  all  love,  all  beauty,  we  have  taken.  There 
is  nothing  more ;  not  for  either  of  us.  St.  John's  night  is 
past ;  the  fires  are  out,  all  out. 

Georg.     And  what  is  to  come? 

Marikke.  Of  you  ?  I  do  not  know.  Perhaps  you  will 
be  prosperous,  perhaps  not.    That  will  depend  on  your- 

[io6] 


l^^J;i'^>i^!w^£»a:!^Ml-i:S!iWiHS2>,«ji'^.iV^l^f^j  .j.jM..V.k~^>^W.<&i,i;L'<^iiL,:^>:>'J.^A'%KMJ»&t£'^^jV!;;^;;;^'':«ti'^' 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

self.  And  of  me  ?  Oh,  I'll  take  care  of  myself,  you  can 
be  sure.  As  soon  as  I  can,  I'll  go  away  from  here — not 
today,  as  I'd  like  to,  that  would — 

Georg.     (Interrupting.)     Away?    Where  to? 

Marikke.  How  do  I  know  ?  The  world  is  wide.  To 
Berlin.  Away  off.  Where  no  one  will  find  me — not 
even  my  George. 

Georg.     And  what  of  me  if  you  should  die  there  ? 

Marikke.  You  needn't  be  afraid  of  that.  I  am  a  fam- 
ine child ;  I  have  callouses  on  my  fingers ;  see  here !  And"  a 
hard  heart.  I'll  work  till  I  can't  stand.  And  then  I'll 
sleep  till  the  work  begins  again.  And  so  we  come  through 
it  all. 

**  Georg.  Famine  child,  you  say.  You  know  I  am  one, 
too.  But  the  reckoning  is  not  fair  between  us.  You  are 
going  into  misery  and  it's  my  fault.  And  if  I  did  not 
love  you  as  I  do,  it  would  haunt  me,  my  life  would — 
but — for  the  very  reason  that  we  are  both  famine  children, 
now  we  will  set  our  teeth  together,  reach  each  other  our 
hard  hands  and  say,  good-bye. 

Marikke.  (In  a  low  tone.)  Good-bye,  George. — And 
— and — never  mind,  he's  not  coming  yet — and  forgive  me, 
from  today — you  know !  If  I  had  not  loved  you  so  much, 
it  would  have  been  easier  for  me.  But  now  as  it  is,  it  is 
good.  I  know  that  now  I  can  never  be  wholly  poor  again. 
For  the  St.  John's  fires  have  burned  once  for  me  too. 
One  night.    Once. 

Georg.     Heimchen ! 

Marikke.     (Listening.)  Don't.    Don't. 

(Mrs.  Vogelreuter  and  Trude  come  in.) 

Mrs.  Vogelreuter.    Hasn't  the  carriage  come  yet, 

[107] 


^ST^"'  '  ^        ■  .<-■■-.,:■..-     V,--         --" -VT^WTl^Bpgei^MlS^^S^jSJJSil^f 


ST.  JOHN'S  FIRE 

children?  And  what  can  Papa  be  thinking  about.  It's 
time  to  go. 

Marikke.     I  think  he's  coming  now,  Mama. 

VoGELREUTER.  (Coming  in.)  Now  forwards,  for- 
wards, forwards !  Oh  I  forgot,  you  wanted  to  speak  with 
me  first. 

Georg.  (With  a  glance  at  Marikke.)  Thank  you.  It 
is  unnecessary. 

Vogelreuter.  Well  then,  quick.  My  coat,  my  coat, 
my  coat.  (He  throzvs  off  his  jacket,  and  puts  on  a  black 
coat  which  Mrs.  Vogelreuter  has  brought  him.) 

Trude.     ( To  Marikke.)     Well,  did  you  ask  him  ? 

(Marikke  nods.) 

Trude.     And  what —  ? 

Marikke.  It  was  all  nonsense,  dear.  He  just  loves 
you.  He  never  has  loved  anyone  else,  he  says.  And  he 
— will  be — very  happy,  he  says. 

Trude.  (Exultantly.)  George  dear!  (She  throzvs 
her  arms  about  him.) 

Vogelreuter.  Come,  come.  What  does  this  mean? 
Time  enough  to  make  love  afterwards.    Out,  out,  out ! 

(All  m,ove  toward  the  door,  Georg  looking  around,  is 
forced  out  by  Vogelreuter.  Only  Marikke  remains 
standing  at  the  left,  her  handkerchief  betzveen  her  teeth, 
and  looks  after  them.) 

CURTAIN. 


[io8] 


